The rebels were hard to dislodge from their bolt-holes in the woods and hills. They were well organised and well armed. This was ‘look behind’ country, where a man could easily give pursuers the slip among trees and through gullies. When the fight was taken to the rebels, they either melted away or put up such resistance that the troops withdrew. Colonel Cudjoe, the Maroon leader, made the best progress, a fact which was galling to the white officers. This went on throughout June and July. But gradually the number of slaves still out was being whittled down. It was increasingly hard for them to get provisions, and they were using up their ammunition hunting for food. Each day now, parties of them were found hanging in the woods, having taken their own lives rather than surrender. Sometimes bloody heaps of women and children were found on the ground in the same places, slaughtered by their men. The white soldiers considered this a mark of African bestiality.
Very few slaves gave themselves up voluntarily. One by one, the missing Glen Isla men were accounted for. Mungo was found hanged. Soon only Charlie and Cuffy were still out there, either free or dead.
In the east of the island, normality had all but been restored. The mighty Tacky had been run down and shot by a Maroon. His head was displayed on a pole on the highway to Spanish Town. In the west, another rebel leader – called Wager by his white master, Apongo by his black comrades – was wounded in a skirmish on the Cabarita river, and taken to Savanna for trial.
There, retribution was already underway. Slow-burning and hanging in chains were among the recommended methods of punishment. Both were ordered for Apongo, reputedly once a prince in his homeland, now a parcel of meat for the executioner: three days of hanging, then burning from the feet up. He was, in a sense, lucky: he died of his wounds on the second day, before they could take him down.
Every day during most of July, Savanna was the scene of such spectacles. A few townsfolk complained – about the smell. The outlying white population made visits to the square where the executions took place: it was not enough that justice was done, it had to be seen to be done. Some brought slaves to watch, knowing that they would tell their friends what they had witnessed.
In August, the Wedderburns got word that their Cuffy was taken, along with another three men. John and James travelled down to Savanna. There was no question of trying to save him, even had they wished to. No question either that he would be found guilty and condemned to death. But it was customary for a master to exchange farewells with one of his slaves before execution. It was a necessary end to a relationship that had gone wrong. Closure. And the slave might have a last request, or wish to apologise, or simply be glad to see a familiar face. Never let it be said that the system was without a measure of humanity.
Likewise it was customary to provide the condemned man with a good meal. This was to give him sustenance for his long days on the gibbet. Cuffy and two of his comrades were not known to have killed anyone, nor were they leaders, so they were spared the fire. The fourth man, found guilty of inciting others to rebel and of killing a soldier, was to be burnt.
The gibbet was shaped like a huge H on a platform. From the crossbeam were suspended three contraptions like seven-foot-high birdcages. Cuffy and the other two were given some bread and cheese and a mug of grog each, then they were strung up in chains within these cages and hoisted above the crowd. There they were to hang, without further food or water, naked except for loincloths, through the blazing days and the humid, mosquito-thick nights, until they died.
On the second day the Wedderburns stood beneath the gibbet and called up.
‘Cuffy!’
‘Why did you do it, Cuffy?’
Cuffy craned his head down towards their voices. His eyes were puffed and weeping, barely open at all. His tongue was swollen, which made it hard for them to understand him.
‘That you, massa?’
‘It’s me, Cuffy. Why did you do it?’
‘I tole you, massa … I tole you back then. Me sick, me tired.’
John shouted back. ‘No, not your head, you fool. Why did you go out?’
‘The same. Me sick, me tired. Go out, get better.’
On the third day they brought out the man who was to be burnt. He was stapled to the ground by a series of hoops hammered in over his arms and legs, till he was quite unable to move anything but his head. A couple of silent, hooded men built a fire near the man’s feet. Then they applied brands to his left foot. It twitched, began to blister and to give off a greasy smoke. The man’s head twisted back and forth, but he did not utter a sound. Cuffy and one of the other men on the gibbet called encouragingly to him in words the white people did not understand. The third one hung motionless, head on chest, oblivious to the proceedings, to anything but his own suffering.
John was keen to get back to Glen Isla. It was James who had insisted that they wait another day, to see if Cuffy survived till morning, to see the start of the burning. They had spent the night in a Savanna tavern. John’s head was sore. The sun was making him dizzy. The executioners, unable to bear the heat, had long since removed their hoods. They were brutal-looking men, white ex-convicts who had traded their own deaths to become butchers of slaves.
‘What you saying now, Cuffy?’ James asked.
‘Me tell mi brudder, this day he be in Africa. That’s where I be gwan, that’s where we all be gwan.’
John turned away. ‘I’ve had enough,’ he said to James. ‘Are you coming with me?’
‘You go on,’ said James quietly. ‘I’ll come later. I’ll stay with Cuffy a while.’
But he was not looking at Cuffy. He was staring at the staked-out man, who still had neither spoken nor cried out, whose left foot was now a charred stump. James hunkered down, watching intently. His face displayed no emotion. John walked away.
The plantation was like a grave that evening. Brownlee and Wilson were sitting on the porch of the great house, muskets primed and within easy reach, drinking porter and swatting at mosquitoes. John was exhausted. He exchanged a few words with them, said they were welcome to sleep at the house till things were back to normal. Then he went inside to bed.
James did not return the next day, nor the next. It was only at the end of the fifth day since Cuffy had been put up on the gibbet that he appeared, grimy with dust and looking as though he had not slept all week. This was not far from the truth.
‘He’s gone,’ he said. He and John were sitting out where Brownlee and Wilson had been two nights before, drinking again. Sometimes it seemed drink was the only thing that was a constant in their lives; that without it they would cease to exist. ‘He died this afternoon. One of the others is still alive, just. Their courage is almost equal to their stupidity.’
‘I could not thole it,’ said John. ‘I am sick of this slaughter.’
‘They brought it on themselves. I have no sympathy for them. They know that too. We have had no trouble at Bluecastle.’ He gave John a glance, briefly critical. ‘But I do admire their courage. The one they burnt never uttered a word.’
John shook his head. He did not want to hear about it, but in the gloom James did not see the gesture, or chose not to.
‘I watched them burn their way up both his legs and one half of one arm, over the course of an hour or two. He never groaned or spoke at all, yet they kept him conscious all the while, with water and spirits. I would not have believed it had I not seen it. Then one of them got too close. Somehow he got his remaining hand free, snatched at the brand the fellow was holding and threw it at his face.’ He gave a short, dry laugh of amazement. ‘We all applauded him, those of us still there, and they strangled him. It was almost as if he had won.’
‘I cannot think how you could bear to watch it.’
‘I have seen worse,’ said James.
Silence, except for the ceaseless cicadas. John thought about what he had just heard. He knew they were both thinking of the same thing, their father’s death.
‘Was it really worse than that?’ he asked.
J
ames said, ‘This was only a neger.’ Then, his voice suddenly weak with fatigue, he went on, ‘If it’s all the same to you, I’ll not go back to Bluecastle tonight. It’s been quite an ordeal. I’ll stop here if I may.’
‘You are welcome. You know you are always welcome.’
In the morning, over a late breakfast, James was much recovered. He had borrowed a razor and shaved, washed most of the dirt off his face. He was, John knew, easily the more handsome of the pair of them.
‘Now,’ James said. ‘Business again. There is ground to be made up. You must restock.’
‘What?’
‘You must restock with the greatest speed and the least cost. How many have you lost?’
‘Slaves, you mean?’
‘Of course.’
‘Twelve.’
‘You’ll be due compensation, for those that did not kill themselves that is. You must get your claim in early, ahead of the rush. The St Mary’s people will already be lodging their petitions. There’s a loss, of course, bound to be – I doubt the Assembly will pay more than forty pound a head for an executed slave – but it’s better than nothing, and will help when you buy fresh. I never thought of it, but a crushed rebellion must be good for the slave ships, must quicken the market.’
‘James, you never fail to astonish me. I have not thought so far ahead.’
‘It is not far at all. If you buy now, you’ll not be able to use the new negers fully till they’re seasoned. That’s next year. You’re short of twelve Coromantees. That’s a serious deficiency.’
‘Eleven, till Charlie’s found.’
‘Ah, Charlie, yes. Do you know, are there any of the slaves executed so far whose owners are not known?’
‘Not that I am aware.’
‘You could put in a claim if we were certain of them. Well, perhaps not. You had better not risk it. But Charlie is another matter.’
‘He’s dead, I should think. Rotting on a tree somewhere.’
‘Well, if that’s the case, let’s be clear it was not his own doing, but that he was hanged on the spot. Sandy can vouch for it – saw the militia or the Maroons do it. Then, if Charlie should come back, and assuming you’ve not declared him as absent – you’ve not, have you? –’
‘I never thought Charlie would rebel. It was against his character. The others urged him to it, I’m sure …’ Again he caught that sharp look that James had given him the night before. ‘No, I’ve not declared him.’
‘Then the price of Charlie staying alive, which he is sure to accept, is that he ceases to be Charlie. Give him a new name when they call for a full registration. That’s coming too, John, when this is over – the island has had a grievous shock. That way you may get forty pound for the old Charlie, and a life of labour from the new one.’
‘It’s somewhat irregular …’
James burst out laughing. ‘This rebellion is irregular! For God’s sake, John, Jamaica is irregular, this whole life is irregular! Do you think you’ll be the only one making false returns? Were you not already considering it, by not listing Charlie as an absentee? Or were you going soft on him?’
‘Not soft, no. But I believe he went against his will.’
‘Take that to its logical conclusion, John, and there’s an end to slavery tomorrow. We must let them all go home to Africa, because they went from there against their will. Suppress your qualms, brother. You’ve done your duty in this affair, you’ve been out with the militia, we all have. You’re a respected man, nobody will dare question your returns. For one slave? You could put in for a further dozen and nobody would challenge you.’
‘Well, we shall see.’
James stood up to go. ‘Do it, John,’ he said. ‘Do not waver. I can read you like a book. If you waver, you will lose everything.’
Late in August Charlie did come back, as John Wedderburn had guessed he would, as he had even hoped. He slunk in one night and in the morning tried to join the great gang as if nothing had happened, as if he had been there throughout those three months. Brownlee immediately threw him in fetters and sent word to the house.
Sir John, in his library at Ballindean, safe from the outside world, could remember seeing Charlie prostrate in the mud, the irons on his strong ankles and wrists, fear on his face. ‘Are you sorry?’ he had asked him. And a string of other questions: ‘What am I going to do with you? Where have you been? What have you done? Have you hurt anyone? Killed anyone? Stolen anything? Do you know what will happen to you if I hand you in? Do you know what should happen to you?’ And on and on. To each question, Charlie made apologetic, humble replies. He had to. He understood, they both understood, that he had no choice. The mere fact that his master was bothering to ask the questions …
Brownlee was against it. The other slaves knew who he was, knew he had been out. It would set a bad example. It would show too much leniency for the worst of crimes.
But there was leniency and leniency. ‘I do not intend to make this easy for him,’ John Wedderburn told Brownlee. He felt that he should not have to justify himself to the overseer.
His brother’s words were still in his ears. James’s motivation for saving Charlie was purely financial – it was, literally, about saving money. But for John there was more. Charlie did not remind him only of Sandy: he reminded him of himself. A man went out for a while, and came back to find that the world had changed for ever.
‘Your name is Newman,’ John told Charlie. ‘You hear me? Your name is Newman. I never want to hear of Charlie again. I hear of Charlie, I find Charlie. I turn him in. You understand? You are Newman now. Understand?’
Newman understood.
Then John said to Brownlee, ‘This Newman is a bad fellow. I want the badness flogged out of him. Fifty stripes, salt in the wounds. Today. The same next week. Every week till he has had five hundred stripes. He’ll not be a bad example. He’ll be a good one.’
Sir John remembered seeing the neger quail. His lips moved, as if he wanted to say something. John Wedderburn cut him off: ‘You are lucky to be allowed to live.’
Sometimes the library was not so safe. It contained shadows. The books seemed to move on the shelves. Outside was warm and bright, with a fine southerly breeze blowing. It would be better to be outside, walking without a purpose. But his legs wouldn’t take it. He couldn’t get round the loch without several rests. Come the winter, he would be stuck where he was, in a room full of ghosts and pictures.
And there was worse. Lately, Sir John had been finding himself forgetting the things he intended to do. It was deeply disturbing, like coming into a room and finding yourself already there. Or expecting to see someone who had been long dead, then remembering their death, then seeing them anyway. And there was something, what was it, something he had been meaning to do for weeks. Something connected with Jamaica, with Charlie …
Sandy. Poor Sandy had been appalled by what he had learned from John and James of the executions in Savanna. He had hated the details, but had wanted them over and over. And James had given them to him, fed Sandy’s fascination. A bad sign. Sir John wished he had spotted it. But he had not read Sandy’s journal till it was far, far too late.
He opened the third drawer down on the left of the writing-table, rummaged among the papers there, his fingers seeking for the familiar shape, the soft calf cover of his dead brother’s journal. After a minute, exasperated at his own slowness, he pulled the entire drawer out and emptied the contents on to the table. His hands pushed aside accounts, letters, a magnifying glass, a memorandum book, visiting cards – clearing a path through the accretions of his life to Sandy’s journal.
It was not there.
Dundee, May 1802
Archibald Jamieson ate breakfast at eight o’clock, alone as always. Sliced ham, bread and honey, coffee, a wee spark of whisky to set the day going. The boys were away out, and Mrs Jamieson seldom rose before midday. She was not a strong woman, not a well woman. Jamieson told himself this often, to remind himself why he must not lose patie
nce with her. But he had been patient for so long – almost since the day they were married, it seemed. Which was now – he pondered for a second, knife poised above the honeycomb, as if he did not know precisely already, as if there was someone else in the room who had asked him – fifteen years past. His first wife Mary had given him five children in seven years, expiring with the stillborn sixth. Janet – he had married her six months later – had managed only two in twice as long, and both of them dead within a year. Nor could he expect any more now, as their sporadic marital conjugations had come to a complete end some while ago. To compensate, he made weekly, paying visits to a woman in Pirie’s Land from whom he was assured there would be no embarrassing disclosures and (he had mixed feelings about this) no bairns. The day he met Susan Wedderburn, it had been this woman, not some mysterious man, he had been to see.
His eldest son was a midshipman in the navy; his daughters were married and mothers themselves; his younger sons were scholars at the grammar school. Mary’s bairns. He was so proud of them all. Yet the new Mrs Jamieson – he thought of her as that still, even after fifteen years – was wearied by his family. She insisted that the boys quell their noise in the house and complained about the cost and bother of clothing and feeding them, although she had precious little to do with either activity.
The maid, Betty Fraser, took care of all that. Ugly as a soo’s snoot, Betty, but Jamieson sometimes cast a covetous eye over her extensive rump. She could give him more bairns, no question, and mother them well too. Not that he needed more. Why this obsession with increasing his offspring? He had fine sons, daughters, grandchildren – and never enough siller to pay for them all. But he couldn’t help it: he loved bairns, loved the noise and mess and heat of them. Sometimes he wished they were all Egyptians, brown as nuts, tumbling around the country in a cart, camping out on the shores of lochs, catching a fish or a rabbit or two, and scraping a living out of tin and woodwork. The tinklarian life, as he had heard someone describe it the other day. He’d like that, and the lads would too. It would be romantic. But the new Mrs Jamieson – she’d die of fright at the mere suggestion.
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