Sugar Money

by Jane Harris

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good. Sound as a bell. Sound-oh.’

  He took up his flask then tip back his head and shook the last few drop of rum into his open mouth.

  ‘But sir—’

  ‘What the devil, boy? Pestering me.’

  ‘The message – I need to know the message.’

  ‘I’m just coming to that. The message is that they can still escape, as planned. They just have to get to the far side of the island at Petit Bacaye. Tell your fellows they must get there by dawn tomorrow because after that, the boats will be gone. We can’t afford to wait any longer. Now, you tell them how to get there – you remember the directions the Father told you …?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘… and make them promise to pass on the message to their compeers once we’re gone. You got that?’

  ‘Yes, sir. But—’

  ‘I haven’t finished. Now, I’ll be keeping an eye on you so just give me the sly nod once you’re done. I’ll finish my conversation with old Jocky-numps, tell him we must be on our way and I’ll call you back to me. I might give you a cuff around the ear at some point, as a convincer – but you’re not to hold it against me – and then we’ll stroll off and be on our way.’

  ‘Like eating pastry,’ I said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing, sir – but the problem is, as I was saying, they will recognise me.’

  ‘Well, the Negroes might – but has the overseer ever set eyes on you?’

  ‘… No, sir. He almost saw me once – but it was night and I was hidden.’

  ‘So – what are you worried about?’

  ‘I’m just – the slaves might peach on me, sir. They already peached on my brother. They could tell Bell who I am – to gain his favour. Then what?’

  ‘They won’t do that,’ said White. ‘They won’t peach on you to your face.’

  ‘But how can you be sure?’

  ‘For my part, I cannot,’ said he, sounding cheerful. ‘But Cléophas is convinced they won’t. He says he knows how their minds work. They trust you, he says, and you’re a likeable chap – despite your temper – and smart. That’s why he sent you and not that little dark bugger – who is not, as it transpires, the quickest crab in the creel. Cléophas reckons you’re a better prospect.’

  I thought of something else then.

  ‘Bryant knows me,’ I said. ‘The doctor. If he turns up I’m dog-meat.’

  ‘Well, you’ll just have to hope he stays away. In that case, it would get too hot for me. Much too hot. I might have to turn Judas – and nobody wants to do that. Even to a half-breed. But you would understand that I had no choice.’

  When I fail to reply, he nudge me with the haft of his cutlass.

  ‘Would you not, boy?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  We sat there, for a short while, in silence. Then I said:

  ‘What if more redcoat come along now to guard them this morning? Do we still try to pass on this message with a gang of soldier watching?’

  White put his finger in his ear and jiggled it, saying:

  ‘Such a circumstance would be – less than ideal.’

  Well, that summation certainly fell far below the fact – but I must have ruffled him for he pocketed his flask and stood up.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said.

  Cautious as two cat, we crept from behind the vines. The battery above us lay empty, not a soul in sight. I looked out over the plantation. The sun had yet to chase all the shadows from the fields. No wind that morning. Across the whole entire valley, the cane stood motionless, the vibrant jade of all the leaves soften by the pearly haze of daybreak.

  White gestured that I should walk ahead of him, downhill toward the River Road.

  ‘Alley-alley, veet,’ he said.

  And – since he prodded me with the flat of his cutlass blade – I had no choice but to comply.

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Once we reach the River Road, the Englishman made me walk beside him. He strolled along, whistling, the cutlass at my back. Hospital Hill rose up to our right. The first part had been cleared entirely but further inland, where they were working, tree stumps and cut branches litter the ground. As we drew closer to the felling, White sheathed his blade but kept one hand on the haft whiles, with the other, he grab my collar such that he had me under his control. My heart felt like it was beating in my throat. Up on the slope, the gang continue to labour, heads down, attentive to their work. Although the hour was early, there would be nothing unusual in the sight of a Béké on the road with a brown boy by his side.

  By this time, the overseer had reach the top of the felling. He stood on a tree stump, tapping his whip against his leg, staring down toward the mill, keeping an eye out for Old Raymond. A few of the men had tackled a stubborn stump near the roadside. Narcisse dug around the base whiles Lapin and Philoge sawed at the roots in the hole and Saturnin examine the proceedings and gave advice. As he shuffle gingerly around the others, I saw that the back of his shirt was stained brown and red with blood, old and new, from the flogging they had given him.

  Magdelon stood chopping wood halfway up the slope with a few other women. Nearby, Rosalie trim branches, her baby strap to her back, despite her fetters. Beside her, Charlotte and Cléronne helped Léontine and Chevallier to gather and stack the logs.

  As we drew near to the field hand, the Englishman release my collar, staring uphill at Bell, no doubt wondering how to hail him in a way that would appear natural, given how far he had strayed from the road.

  ‘Come down from there, confound you …’ White muttered and began to curse hard beneath his breath. Just then, the ox-cart came into view, rolling along the highway from the mill. Bell leapt from his stump and began striding down to meet it. En route, he shot a glance in our direction and briefly took our measure before losing interest in us.

  ‘Here we go,’ muttered White. ‘You do exactly what I told you.’

  The cart came to a halt beside the felling. Raymond peered at us as he climb down from the seat and when he recognise me his mouth fell open. I stared back at him, pleading with my eyes, begging him to say nothing. He gave me a nod, scarce perceptible, and began to fiddle with the breeching strap on the harness whiles darting glances in our direction, clearly bewildered to see me turn up in broad daylight in the company of a strange Béké.

  White was already hailing the overseer.

  ‘Good day to you, sir. How do you do?’

  As Bell return the greeting, his gaze passed over me again. The very fact that I appear to be the slave of another fellow was enough to render me almost invisible. White came to a halt in the road, not far from the cart.

  ‘Tell me, sir, is this the way to Fort Royal? I fear I may have taken a bad turn.’

  ‘’Deed you have, sir,’ Bell replied. He pointed to the sea. ‘Back that way, turn left at the coast. Follow the road straight into town.’

  ‘Ah, thank you,’ said White. ‘I knew we had gone wrong somewhere.’

  The overseer had already turned his attention to the cart and – finding fault with the amount of debris in the back – began to berate Raymond. With Bell thus distracted, White glared at me, a reminder that I should tug his sleeve rather than stand there, stiff as a hollow tree. Then he called out again to the overseer, who had just ordered Raymond to clean up the back of the wagon.

  ‘That’s a fine Scotch accent you have there, sir. Where do you hail from?’

  ‘Mugdock,’ said Bell.

  ‘Mugdock?’

  ‘A village outside Glasgow.’

  Meanwhile – at the sound of a strange voice on the road – some of the field hand had paused in their work to gaze down at where we stood. Magdelon and Cléronne, Léontine, then Charlotte – Saturnin, Polidor, Augustin: I saw the recognition in each of their faces as, one by one, they turned and spotted me.

  ‘Indeed? I’m a Devonshire man, myself. Tell me, sir, I’m – eh – looking to buy some land here. Thinking of settlin
g in Grenada, you see. Would you recommend it?’

  The overseer made a sour face and straightways came strolling over to where we stood. By chance, White had struck on a subject close to his heart.

  ‘I’d think long and hard before settling here,’ said Bell. ‘It’s a damnable place.’

  ‘Really?’ the Englishman replied. ‘How so, sir? What do you find objectionable?’

  ‘Well – where to begin? The flies, the musquitos, the heat, the diseases and pestilence, the storms, the food, the people – the French in particular – I have no time for them. I could give you a list as long as your leg.’

  The field hand made a great show of activity whiles no doubt they strain to hear every word the two men exchanged.

  ‘Dear me – that does sound bad,’ said White. ‘All the same, I like the look of the place. Tell me, what lies up yonder, further along this road? Any old Frenchy plantations for sale, by any chance? I’d want to buy in this part of the island – near town, you see – I’d rather not end up in the back end of nowhere.’

  Bell glance behind him to check on the slave. The Englishman took the opportunity to glare at me again and so – as soon as Bell turn back toward us – I did as White required and tugged his sleeve. Imagine my surprise when – with a sudden fury – he raised his elbow and thump my head, a clanging blow. Whiles I was still reeling from that, he aimed his foot at my latter end and gave me a kick that jarred my bones.

  ‘Leave me be while I talk to this gentleman,’ he cried, then addressed the overseer again: ‘Devil the boy, never gives me peace.’ Then to me, he said: ‘Go over there and do something useful. Help that nigger.’

  Cursing him in my mind, I limped over to the wagon. Raymond had found an old sack and was flapping it around to clear out the dust and twig. We exchanged a nod and I began to scrape the debris off the cart-bed with my bare hands. Turning away from the two Béké, the old man interrogated me with his expression but before I could mutter a word I saw Rosalie approaching with Léontine, their arms full of split logs, their eyes full of questions. Rosalie took small, shuffling steps and – as she reach the rear of the cart – she pretended to trip over her fetters. Her pile of wood tumble to the ground beside me. Quick-sharp, I bent down to help collect the fallen logs, thus we were partially hidden behind the wagon. Léontine began to throw wood into the cart-bed, making such a racket that we could whisper, unheard by White and Bell.

  ‘What in the hell are you doing here?’ Léontine asked.

  ‘Emile’s in jail,’ I muttered, in reply.

  ‘Bell told us. Have they hurt him?’

  ‘Not so far as I know. What about you?’

  ‘Not me,’ said Léontine. ‘Not yet. But they flogged Saturnin and they have threaten us with more whipping.’

  I bent down to help Rosalie, asking her:

  ‘Which way did Céleste go?’

  She jerked her head toward the far side of the valley.

  ‘Into the cane, over there, like she might be heading for the mountain.’

  Up on the slope, the field hand laboured on, every otherwhile darting glances at us, trying to figure out what was happening. We continue to dump the logs in the cart with as much noise as possible.

  ‘Cléophas is still here with the boats,’ I told them. ‘Petit Bacaye. If you get there by dawn, you can still escape. Follow the road out of town, then—’

  ‘Save your breath,’ hissed Rosalie. ‘I know the place. But none of us will go. Everyone terrified. Wondering how they might punish us.’

  ‘And we’re under guard again tonight,’ Raymond added.

  I stood up to hand him more wood and check on the two Béké. They were still deep in conversation, Bell saying:

  ‘Of course, it’s up to you, but I’d invest your money in England, not this godforsaken hell-hole.’

  White attempted to catch my eye, but I bent down again behind the cart to help Léontine with the last of the logs.

  ‘Where is your grandmother?’ I asked.

  ‘Looking after children.’

  ‘Will you try to get to the boats?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘I doubt it. What about you?’

  ‘I’m going to see the Governor, try to stop them flogging Emile.’

  ‘Are you crazy?’

  ‘Dousman,’ hissed Raymond.

  Bell had begun to stroll toward the cart with the Englishman on his heels. I had never seen White anxious before but he look close to it now. I stood up with the last piece of wood – just in time, because Bell slap the side of the cart and shouted at us.

  ‘Get a move on, you women. Go and get more wood. And use these. What do you think they’re for?’

  He snatch two baskets from the cart and threw them on the ground. Léontine and Rosalie grab them and made themselve scarce, not daring even a backward glance. White stared at me, attempting to divine if I had been able to pass on the message. When I gave him a furtive nod, relief spread across his countenance.

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘We must be on our way – thank you, sir, for your advice and recommendations. I shall be sure to visit the billiard hall.’ He turn to me. ‘Hurry up, boy. Alley-alley. We haven’t got all day. Farewell, sir, farewell.’

  He put a guiding hand on my shoulder and led me away. Once or twice, I glance back, wondering if any of the slave would peach on me now that we were leaving. Bell strolled over to watch the men who had begun to lever up the tree stump with iron-crows. The women had resume chopping wood but every so often they would raise their heads and stare after us. So far as I could see, none of them seemed as though they had any intention of having a quiet word with Bell.

  White tightened his grip on my shoulder.

  ‘Stop looking back,’ he muttered.

  Only when we were beyond earshot of the felling did he begin to question me.

  ‘How did you fare? Did you tell them?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You gave them directions to get there?’

  ‘One of them knows the place. She can tell them.’

  ‘And they understood we can only wait until dawn?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Somehow, I had to get away from him, but it would have to wait until there was nobody else in sight. Already, on the road ahead, I could see a number of porteuses and a man on a donkey. Cléophas had told White to avoid the town but, evidently, he intended to ignore that instruction and pass through Fort Royal on the way to Petit Bacaye. My best bet was to wait until we were well beyond the carenage, where the road ran through a thick swathe of forest. There, I could make a run for it, dive into the trees and then – once I’d lost old Bianco for sure – I could turn back to town and find the Governor.

  The Englishman kept interrupting my thoughts with questions about the slaves.

  ‘What did they say when you spoke to them?’

  ‘Not much, sir, it was difficult.’

  ‘Will they try to escape? How will they get away?’

  ‘Sir, they’re scared out of their wits. And they’ll be under soldier guard again tonight. So … I cannot say, sir.’

  White frowned and then grew silent. Presently, he took out his cutlass and started to massacre any roadside grasses that off ended him in passing, an apparent foul mood which lasted until we reach town and his gaze fell upon a rum stall at the quayside. Only then did his face brighten.

  ‘Alley-alley,’ he said to me. ‘Veet. Let’s get me a breakfast.’

  Chapter Sixty

  Various merchant had set up stalls along the wharf for some kind of seasonal market, a continuation of Christmas. The esplanade throng with people. White headed straight for the rum stall and ask the merchant for a taste. The stall-keeper gave him a glass but the first tafia that White essayed was not to his liking and so he demanded another bottle. Then he and the merchant fell into conversation about the virtues of the different kinds of Kill-Devil on the stall.

  Meanwhile, I notice people drifting up a side street to the parad
e square. Something about to happen up there, I guessed, perhaps some kind of marching display by the Glasgow Greys with their shrill Scotch pipes. As I watch the townfolk milling around, it occur to me that the Rue Gouvernement lay just beyond the square. I glance back at White. He had leaned across the counter, deep in conversation with the rum seller. Just as a kind of experiment, I took a backward step away from the stall, then another. And another. The merchant had just poured White a third glass. I kept on stepping backward, allowing myself to merge with the crowd. Then, in a flash, I turned and slipped away, expecting White to call out or chase me, but I heard nothing, only the din of people around me, chattering and shouting and laughing. I moved with them, up the side street, scarce able to believe my luck. All being well, I could cut across the square then dive along to Rue Gouvernement and try to gain an audience with Melville.

  At the far end of the side street, the way into the square was block by slow-moving people, chiefly a drove of English sailors in Monmouth caps and wide trousers who were dawdling at the corner. I had to stand on my hind legs and peer beyond them. So far as I could see, a great swarm of townfolk had gathered in the parade ground. Some among them had sought shade beneath the few acacia tree that grew around the edge of the square. I could see various fine-timbered redcoat strolling around among the bacon-fed merchants and planters, the shopkeepers in aprons. A few rosy-cheek ladies twirled parasols; others had children clinging to their skirts. Here and there, longside the French and English, a number of free men and women; their well-tailored garments distinguish them from the slaves of all ages, most of whom stood attendance on a master or mistress, whiles the remainder bore traits of produce on head or hip. The heat of the sun would have nailed a man to the dirt. Everyone was talking at once and the clamour of conversations echoed off the buildings on all sides.

  The crowds look thickest in one far corner of the square, where the road began to rise toward Hospital Street and the hills beyond. Above the heads of the populace, I could make out a group of Béké soldiers and officials, taking their ease on horseback. With a start, I recognise Bryant among them, in conversation with an eminent bewigged personage whose expensive garb marked him out as Governor Melville. The lavish gold braid of his officer-jacket glittered in the sun. He sat astride his stallion, listening to Bryant without looking at him.