Daniel

by Richard Adams

  “And mind you carry them carefully, Dan’l,” he said to me. “Those clays break easily. They’re not required urgently, so you’d better walk with them on the way back. Oh, and four ounces of Sailorboy snuff, tell old Benjy, and just you mind he keeps his thumb off the scales.”

  Since it was quite a way to the tobacconist’s, I set off at an easy jogtrot, keeping a sharp lookout for Henderson. I knew where he ought to be — in the tobacco plantation — but where he was concerned you could never be sure.

  Since Frederick had said there was no hurry, I thought I’d go round by the Make-and-Mend Shop, and perhaps – if they’d let me — spend a little time with Doth. I turned into the track and I suppose I might have been about a stone’s throw from the shop when I saw that something was wrong. Several women were gathered together outside. They were clearly protesting, waving their arms and clamouring. As I ran towards them I recognised Flikka, conspicuous by his red hair, and there was Doth herself, struggling in his clutches: between the two of them and the women stood two rough-looking youths armed with cudgels, who were threatening the women and keeping them back.

  Flikka was twisting Doth’s arm behind her back. She caught sight of me and screamed “Daniel! Daniel!”

  Without weighing my chances and, to tell the truth, in such a rage that I hardly knew what I was doing, I leapt at Flikka and managed to get a grip of his throat. He flung Doth to the ground, snatched my hand away and gave me a blow that knocked me clean across the track. I staggered and fell backwards into a pile of rubbish.

  “Piss off and don’t come back!” shouted Flikka, and turned his attention once more to Doth.

  “Now!” he said, slapping her face. “You come up the hill with me or I’ll really hurt you.”

  Something was pressing painfully into the small of my back. As I struggled to get up, I pulled it out and saw it was a hollow length of iron piping, about as long as my forearm and fairly heavy. At one end the edges of the hole were bent and ragged, where it must have been clumsily cut. The other end was smooth.

  I gripped it and got to my feet. Flikka was facing me. I swung back the piping and hit him as hard as I could. It caught him above his ear and he went down like a stone. Before his two mates could reach me I hit him again. I felt his skull crack and blood poured out. Both of them turned and ran, leaving Doth to me and her friends.

  I supported Doth back into the shop and helped her into a wicker chair. Flikka was still lying where he had fallen.

  The next thing I remember is Clarice, one of the girls, shouting, “Daniel! I think he’s dead.”

  I followed her outside, where people were already crowding round. I stooped down and felt for his heart. He was dead right enough.

  I asked two of the bystanders to help me to carry the body indoors and lay it out on one of the tables. I covered the face with some sort of garment lying nearby. I felt faint and it was only by an effort that I was able to keep my self-possession.

  Missus Blatch was standing in the doorway, repelling intruders. I joined her.

  “What ought we to do now, Missus, do you think?”

  She flung her arms round me, shedding tears. “Oh, dear Daniel, dear, dear Daniel! Well done! You saved us from those horrible men!”

  “But listen, Missus; Flikka’s dead and his friends — helpers — whatever they were – they’ve cleared off! What ought we to do now?”

  She made no immediate reply and I could tell that she felt almost as dazed and uncertain as I did.

  At length she said, “No help for it; we’ll have to find one of the white men to take charge.”

  At this moment, as it fell out, one of the overseers, a young man named Otway, appeared at the far end of the track. Seeing him, the bystanders melted away, leaving Missus Blatch, four or five of the girls and myself to wait as he came up to us.

  Missus Blatch told him what had happened, emphasising that I had had to hit Flikka to stop him brutalising and abducting Doth. Otway heard her out without interruption and then went inside to see the body. It was here that Doth joined us. Otway questioned her closely, asking whether she had ever had any kind of relationship with Flikka. Could he have acted out of jealousy or because she had provoked him in some way? Reassured about this, Otway turned to me again.

  “You’re not denying that you hit him with an iron bar and killed him?”

  “No, massa, but I didn’t mean to kill him, only stop him hurting my sister and taking her away.”

  “You say you hit him twice on the head with an iron bar, and yet you didn’t mean to kill him?”

  “Massa, I only meant stop him taking my sister away.”

  “Why should he take her away? Where to?”

  I told him what I knew about Flikka and what he did with girls,

  I could tell that although initially he was sceptical, at length he became convinced of the truth of my account. When I had finished, he said, “Well, this is a very serious matter. I shall report it to Mr. Reynolds at once. You, Daniel, and your sister here, both of you come with me.”

  We waited outside the door while Otway went in to speak to Reynolds. Doth did her best to reassure me, but I couldn’t help feeling terrified: I knew that white men had a short way with slaves who gave trouble. I had killed another slave and probably that was all that Reynolds would bother himself to hear.

  When Otway called us to come in I was startled to see the Reverend Foster sitting in one corner of the room, reading a newspaper. When he didn’t look up, I realised that Reynolds had evidently not thought it necessary to ask him to leave the room while he dealt with us.

  Reynolds was seated behind a big desk and gestured to us to stand in front of it. Then he said to me, “I know you, don’t I? You’re one of the messengers.”

  “Yes, massa.”

  “And you’ve killed a man by hitting him over the head with an iron bar?”

  “Yes, massa. To stop him hurting, taking away my sister.”

  “You’re the sister,” he said to Doth.

  “Yes, massa.”

  “This man was threatening you. Why?”

  “Massa, he make black girls go up de hill for white men. He try to make me do dis, but I not go.”

  “For prostitution, you mean?”

  “Yes, massa. He do dis to many girls here. Ask dem, dey all tell you de same.”

  “And he was forcing you — struggling with you – when your brother killed him?”

  “Yes, massa.”

  Reynolds shrugged his shoulders and turned to me. “As a rule, a slave who kills another slave is hanged and no two ways about it. But now that I’ve heard what you and your sister have to say, I shan’t hang you. You can’t stay here, though. Everyone would know that you had killed another slave in a violent attack and weren’t sentenced for it. You’ll have to be sold.”

  At this moment, the Reverend Foster spoke. “Mr. Reynolds, sir, may I say a word? You’ve been very kind to me during my visit here. I’ve made several good friends among your slaves and as it happens this boy is one of them. I know him well and I’m happy to say that he has all the makings of a good Christian. I’d like to ask you of your generosity to let me take him back to England with me. In that way no one anywhere in this country will hear of this unhappy business.”

  While Foster was speaking, Reynolds had plainly been becoming more and more impatient. Now he said, ‘“Very well, Mr. Foster, I agree to what you ask. Now, Mr. Otway, please leave and take these slaves with you. They’ve wasted enough of my time already.”

  Even now, many years after, it still distresses me to recall the grief I felt in leaving the estate — the only “home” I had ever known — and of parting from my family. Even Tom shed tears, while Missus Kathy seemed almost out of her mind. As well as she could for weeping, she told us yet again how she had been determined to save my life and to adopt me from the very moment that I was born. Doth, of course, already knew what Massa Reynolds had decreed. Her anguish went too deep for tears. I held her in my arms
as she laid her head upon my shoulder, saying again and again that she couldn’t bear the thought of living without me. Even Josh, though he didn’t weep, remained silent for some time after he had heard the news. Doing my best to find some comfort for them, I said that the whole village would surely feel glad that Flikka was gone for good, and that the Reverend Foster’s kind intervention assured me of one friend at least. Being able to count on his protection meant that I might be able to build up the kind of relationship with him that Josh had with Massa Reynolds. Probably, I said, this change, which seemed so unhappy now, would turn out in time to have been all for my good, for my future prosperity. One day, perhaps, I would return and share that prosperity with them. Reverend Foster, I pointed out, was a minister who had come here on purpose to find black people to convert to Christianity. Well, he had found me, hadn’t he?

  Thus I did my best to put on a confident front and cheer them up. And before I had finished, I had convinced myself, at any rate, that as my future unfolded I would be sure to find good opportunities for advancement. In time I would surely be granted my freedom and no longer be a slave. Josh joined in, saying that that was the right way to look at my situation. He had personally known more than one slave who had gained his freedom. My best course was to make myself useful to Reverend Foster; but to be patient and not expect too much too soon.

  Talking in this way, the two of us succeeded in comforting Missus Kathy and Doth a little, and everyone lay down to sleep in an easier frame of mind. Next morning, we were all pleasantly surprised when young Mr. Otway came in to wish me luck. He was sure I would do well, he said; I had his blessing.

  Such warmth and approval from a white overseer was unusual, to say the least. He shook hands with me and went on to tell Doth that, having made some enquiries, he felt as glad as she did that Flikka was out of the way; and if she came in for any more of that kind of thing, she was to let him know at once.

  No sooner had he left than the Reverend Foster appeared. He gave Missus Kathy two newly-baked loaves and a pound of butter, and then told me that he had what he called “a horse and cart” waiting, and hoped I was ready to set out.

  Of course there were more tears, which Foster did his best to staunch. Then, as resolutely as I could, I walked away with him, compelling myself not to look back.

  PART II

  I had never in my life been outside the estate before. Now, perched up beside Mr. Foster, I felt almost afraid to look about me. Keeping my eyes down, I glanced to one side; there was grass growing beside the dusty road. It was the same on the other side, too. Rather timidly, I raised my head but saw only the road stretching in front, bordered by the grass and here and there a few trees. In one of these a mockingbird was singing.

  In the distance I saw a group of houses. They didn’t look like any kind of building on the estate. For one thing, all the windows I could see had glass in them; one flashed in my eyes and then, as we moved on, another. A door opened and out came a man — a white man – who stood still for some moments, looking up at the clouds in the sky. Then he walked down to the road and turned in our direction. He was wearing a sunhat and carrying a tool-bag on a strap over his shoulder. As he drew nearer he stared at Mr. Foster and myself sitting side by side. His expression was unmistakably hostile. I felt nervous and looked down to avoid meeting his eyes. Foster wished him a good morning. He did not reply, but passed us in silence.

  All that morning we jogged easily along, past cornfields, cottages and woodland. We met with few fellow-travellers and stopped only to rest the horse and let it drink from any convenient creek along the way. Once we came upon a gang of blacks who were stripping the branches from felled trees and burning them on a bonfire beside the road. Our horse fidgeted and refused to go near the crackling and the smoke drifting into its eyes. Lacking all experience, I felt uneasy, trying to lead it forwards; however, one of the workmen, with a friendly grin to me and a few respectful words of greeting to Foster, took the bridle and, speaking quietly and reassuringly to the horse, at length succeeded in coaxing it past the fire. Although I had occasionally seen horses at work on the estate, I had never seen anything like this before, and thought it well worth the penny that Mr. Foster gave the man.

  It must have been a good two hours into the afternoon before Mr. Foster said it was time for a halt and a meal. He went on to explain to me that according to the strict rule in American society, he and I would have to separate to eat and drink. Being used to this rule on the estate — where only house-slaves ever saw white men sitting down to a meal — I said I’d be happy to do whatever he wished. When we reached a tavern in the next village, he brought me out some bread and cheese, two apples and a pot of beer before disappearing indoors for his own victuals.

  While he was gone and I was wolfing down the bread and cheese, three or four black lads of about my own age came drifting down the street and stopped to talk to me. When I told them I was travelling with my white master, they naturally asked where we were going. When I told them that my master was an Englishman and that we were going to sail to England in a ship, they were visibly impressed. One of them said he’d never heard of England and where was it? I told him that I didn’t know any more than he did, but my master was a minister and actually lived in England. “So you nebber been dere,” said another of them. “Where he get you, man, where you from?”

  I told him my master had taken me away from a tobacco plantation. He said that was lucky for me: tobacco plantations were terrible places, he’d heard, where a slave could die of the work in seven years or less. I told them about Jeckzor, whipped to death by a white overseer for helping a poor woman in labour. At this one of the boys, who had not so far spoken, said that black people weren’t going to submit to this kind of cruelty forever. One day they’d rise up and put the brutal white masters to death. Why didn’t I join them, instead of cringing and grovelling before white men for a few handfuls of food a day? This stung me, and I began to tell them how I’d killed Flikka for what he was trying to do to my dearest Doth.

  In the middle of this, out came Reverend Foster, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Hallo, lads,” he greeted them amiably. “Been having a chat with my friend Daniel? Why don’t you come to England with us? Black people get better treatment in England, you know.”

  At this one or two of them grinned sheepishly: ‘said I’d told them it was far off across the sea. Their parents wouldn’t like them to run away. Anyway, the white men, for whom they did night work, would be sure to catch them; they had horses and big dogs.

  Foster gave them a farthing apiece, wished them luck and said that now he and I had to be getting along. They trotted beside us for a little while, calling out farewells and good wishes. I felt I was luckier than they were, and this added a few sparks to my self-confidence. If I had only known, they were premature.

  Later that afternoon the road led through several miles of woodland. We were proceeding at an easy jogtrot when suddenly two rough-looking men, both carrying guns over their shoulders, strode out from among the trees and stood facing us in the middle of the road. Naturally, Foster pulled up. Before he could speak, the older of the two men levelled his gun at me and shouted, “You goddamn two-bit nigger, d’you want me to blow your black balls off right where you’re sitting?”

  As Mr. Foster began to speak, the man shouted, “Shut your fucking mouth, nigger-lover!” And then to me, as he pointed at the road, “Get down outa there, sharper than shit, unless you want a taste of lead.”

  Terrified, I leapt into the road, falling painfully on my knees, and remained crouching.

  “Stand up! Come here!”

  I took two hesitant steps forward. “Fucking quicker than that!” he yelled. “Run, blast you!”

  Hardly knowing what I was doing, I stumbled forward and stood in front of him.

  “It’s not healthy for a nigger-boy to sit next to a white man,” he said. “Know why, do ya?” and as I answered nothing, “Well, speak up, do you, hey?”<
br />
  “No, no, sir.” I gasped breathlessly.

  “Why,” he said, “he gets wet.” And thereupon he opened his breeches and pissed over me, gripping my shoulder to hold me still. After a few moments his companion copied him.

  Foster said never a word, but only cowered in his seat as they finished and turned towards him. They stared at him silently for a while, as though to satisfy themselves that he had nothing to say. At length the older man said, “Best not stay here, nigger-lover. It ain’t the best spot. Drive on!”

  Foster opened his mouth. “But — but —”

  “Drive on, preacher-man, I said!” And he brandished his gun.

  Foster paused a moment, then took up the reins, joggled them up and down along the horse’s back and clicked his tongue, at which it started forward. The two men turned and watched as the distance grew between Foster and themselves. I had never felt so frightened in my life, not even when I had lain at the feet of Henderson.

  Suddenly, when Foster had gone perhaps a hundred yards, the younger man, going behind me where I stood, gave me a tremendous kick and shouted “Run, nigger! Run all the way to hell, damn you!”

  Foster, hearing him, turned his head and stopped. As I caught up, he said, “Perhaps you’d better sit at the back, Daniel.”

  I could scarcely draw my breath. Sobbing uncontrollably, I knelt in the cart, clutching the rail for support. At length Foster said, “Well, it’s over now. I’m sorry, Daniel. I’m very sorry.”

  I made some reply and we drove on in silence.

  Soon I saw that we were nearing a town — after all these years its name escapes me — and Foster said we would stay there for the night and go on in the morning to the port, where we were sure to find a ship going to England. I asked him what he meant to do with our “horse and cart”, and he replied that it would be easy to sell, as long as we didn’t ask too much.