The Pull Of Freedom

by Barrett, Brenda

  He wandered to the property line that separated his father’s property from the Williams’ and leaned on the fence. The flowers that he had gotten from Asha were crushed in his hand. He tried to straighten the tiny blossoms but they had wilted. He couldn't foresee a way for him and Asha to be together in the society in which they lived. There association would be frowned upon everywhere except probably in Haiti but Asha was not even strictly mulatto, her skin was like dark honey, she could not pass for white.

  Might be she doesn’t even love you the way you do her, a little voice whispered in his head. She is still young and has stars in her eyes; sheltered by Mamee she has no idea how cruel the world can be.

  He sighed and closed his eyes; his feelings for the girl were too strong, he couldn't imagine leaving Jamaica when she was here.

  “You have it bad old boy,” Daniel said, looking down from his perch atop his horse. “You did not even hear me coming.”

  Mark glanced up at Daniel and smiled. He used to play with Daniel when he was small. Now the boy was about sixteen and undisputedly his brother, it was ironic how much Daniel resembled their father and also comical how Robert Simmonds took pains to avoid the lad.

  “Little brother,” Mark said grinning, “I have been back for two months and I have seen you only once.” Mark had always acknowledged their connection and made sure that Daniel did the same.

  Daniel alighted from the horse and went over to Mark. “I was in Spanish Town with Aunt Beatrice. She is not as dour when she eats.”

  They both laughed at the picture he drew of Bridget’s sister who became quite ornery if she was hungry.

  “So what has you sighing like the hero in a romantic opera?”

  “Asha,” Mark said unabashedly. He trusted Daniel not only because he was his brother but also because he was always easy to talk to.

  “Oh, the black and white issue,” Daniel rubbed his beardless chin and posed contemplatively. “Mmmm … let’s see … ”

  “Stop it, you goof,” Mark pushed him, “I missed you when I was away.”

  “I know,” Daniel said seriously, “Ma used to read your long letters to me. You complained about the cold, you complained how shallow the existence of the Londoners were and you complained about your mother. I could only imagine that you missed us here and the fun we used to have.”

  “My mother is an airhead.” Mark twirled an imaginary lock of hair, “she throws parties regularly and she speaks to me as if I am deaf, I think she is unhappy and a bit uncomfortable with me. One night she said she thinks I'm judging her.”

  Daniel chuckled and placed his foot on a tree trunk. The sun was directly overhead so he was glad for the rest and the shade of the tree. “So do you judge her?”

  “Nah,” Mark said easily, “I had Aunt Bridget and Mamee and Asha while growing up. I wouldn’t have wanted to live in London anyway, it’s filthy and the air is not as fresh as here. The members of the ton, to which my mother belongs, are all energetic gossipers. Everything is a scandal, but the slave issue is generally met with blank stares and vacant expressions. It's not fashionable to talk about slaves.”

  “At least now you can stop resenting her for leaving you,” Daniel said wisely.

  Mark grimaced, “I was stupid at one time, I really stopped wanting to live with her when you and Asha were old enough to be my play-mates. There is just so much to do on a plantation; London was not good for me. It took me a long time to get back my tan, which by the way is not fashionable there either.”

  Daniel grunted, “I think you should leave Asha alone.”

  Mark looked at him open mouthed, “I thought you were on my side.”

  “And hers too,” Daniel said warily, “I like Asha, she is beautiful.”

  “You want her for yourself?” Mark asked indignantly, his own brother and yet it made sense. Daniel was half white, he could probably get away with being with Asha.

  “No,” Daniel held up his hand, “I like her that’s all. If you pursue her, your father might sell her. Anybody with half an eye can see that you are in love with Asha. You practically glow with it. I saw you once since you came back and you spent all the time talking about her.”

  Mark sat down on the ground and leant toward the fence and closed his eyes. He still clutched the mangled flowers, “I'm doomed.”

  “You can always keep her as a mistress,” Daniel suggested.

  “No,” Mark mumbled. That would not be enough for me, I wouldn’t want her as a slave either, I wish I were black or she was white. I'm killing myself over her and I don’t even know if she likes me.”

  Daniel shrugged, “I saw her talking to Milo.”

  “The peddler?”

  Daniel nodded, “he might offer to buy her from your father and then you will find someone else to love.”

  “That’s a heartless statement,” Mark said forlornly. “So when are you coming to my house for dinner?”

  Daniel laughed, “now that’s a heartless statement; I am not welcomed in your house. Your father does not enjoy seeing the bastard offspring of his loins.”

  “He is such a hypocrite.”

  “That’s life big brother,” Daniel got back on his horse, “that’s life.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  It took Asha an hour and a half to peel the potatoes that Jamilia assigned her. After washing her hands, she had escaped the kitchen staff without much notice. Burnice had looked up and then frowned but she continued washing the callaloo she was attending to and didn't say a word.

  She ran in the direction of the stream, it was far away from the Great House and if Mamee found her missing she would get a tongue-lashing. She was going to meet Massa Mark; he had told her not to call him Massa Mark.

  Her feet flew over the lush green carpet of the lawn until she reached the thick growth of mango and breadfruit trees. There was nobody around, most of the slaves were in the field, she could hear them singing, “swing low sweet chariot coming for to carry me home.” The faint melody drifted to her in the afternoon as she sat down at the bank of the stream and stared into its green depths; she was fortunate to be a house slave.

  “Just two shades darker and you would be outside in the sun,” Mamee would murmur whenever she was not as obedient as she should be. That threat alone was enough to make her toe the line. “Your father was coffee black,” Mamee would mumble, “what yer mother was thinking I don’t know.”

  Asha sighed; she was no longer a little girl who could run around the plantation carefree, she was now considered old enough to have familial responsibilities and Mamee would not be amused that she was meeting Mark.

  “What are you thinking?” Mark asked sitting down beside her.

  She jumped, she hadn’t heard him coming.

  “I was thinking that we are no longer children, so meeting you here would be frowned upon”. Asha said primly, happy that she could speak English as well as he could.

  Mark laughed, “I watched you running toward the stream, you still look childish.”

  “Did not,” Asha exclaimed.

  “Did too,” Mark laughed, “I bought something for you when I was in England. I couldn’t give it to you before now because Mamee is always around.”

  “What is it?” Asha asked excitedly, she didn’t own anything. Even the clothes on her back were given to her by the Massa.

  Mark opened his palm and pressed a locket in her hands. “It has A and S on the front. It stands for Asha Simmonds.”

  Asha looked at him and then at the slim length of gold in her hands. It was not a simple gift; Massa’s children didn't give their slaves gifts. She rubbed it around in her fingers.

  “It’s supposed to go around your neck,” Mark whispered.

  “I know,” Asha said looking at him with tears in her eyes, “but I can’t wear it now, Mamee will frown.”

  “Then keep it with you,” Mark said softly, “and wear it when you are free.”

  Asha gasped, “Mark I … I'm not planning to run away.”
>
  “You should,” Mark said looking in the distance, “slavery isn’t good. It makes me uncomfortable. I can’t imagine how slaves feel.”

  “My father is free,” Asha said suddenly, “Mamee said he ran away from here before I was born.”

  Mark looked at her his eyes worried, “Asha I have to tell you something.”

  “Mark! Mark!” Robert Simmonds bellowed, he was on his horse and galloping toward the stream.

  Mark groaned, “can you meet me here tomorrow this time.”

  Asha hesitated and then nodded, “sure.”

  Mark got up, “stay here, I will go and meet my old man so that he doesn’t discover that you are here with me.”

  “What is it Dad?” Mark asked his frantic looking father when he exited the knot of mango trees.

  “There is a slave revolt quite near here, the Penwood's,” Robert said frantically, “we have to take up arms against the maroons. Come on,” Robert said, extending his hand; “we will stop for your horse on the way.”

  Mark reluctantly got on his father’s horse; he was going to fight in a war he didn't believe in.

  Chapter Thirty

  Cudjoe and his men raided the Penwood plantation. For days they had wandered toward the centre of the island, avenging the wounding of one of their men who was shot while guarding a settlement—Cudjoe's men were angry.

  The white men had not ceased their march into the hills to find them; hunting them as if they were animals, so now the hunted became the hunter.

  Though several of his men had died in ambushes set by the whites, Cudjoe wanted the whites to see that they could wreak havoc on any section of the island they willed.

  He had not been to this section of the island for a while, not since his escape years ago from the Simmond’s plantation. He still remembered the sneer on the overseers face and clenched his teeth.

  He was tired of being treated like an animal. Freedom was a hard mistress to tame; they had to fight for theirs with all they had, constantly battling to secure essential supplies.

  They lit the cane field afire and watched as the dried plants blazed. The Penwoods and their friends were shooting in the air and shouting like beasts, he chuckled with Jelani who was crouched beside him from their vantage point in the hills.

  The large plantation had three hundred slaves who didn’t need much to be riled up; a well-placed whisper here and there was all that was needed to incite a revolt so that he and his men could raid without being shot at.

  “They are giving up too easily,” Jelani said angrily as they watched the slaves cowering before the band of white men. “It’s a shame that they won't die to be free.”

  Cudjoe looked at his brother and beckoned him to kneel lower in the knee-high grass. The other men were slowly bringing the supplies up the hills and passing it up to the men in their strategic positions; their camouflaged bodies barely discernible from the landscape—Cudjoe blew the abeng to tell them to hurry.

  “All I want is to be left alone to live,” Cudjoe said to Jelani tiredly, “I'm tired of fighting. I'm never truly at rest.”

  Jelani opened his mouth then closed it, he was going to say that Nanny would never say something like that but he knew better than to argue with his big brother. Cudjoe often said that Nanny was more stubborn than determined and that her stubborn pride would put her village in trouble.

  “Look at that,” Cudjoe growled, “that’s the overseer from the Simmonds plantation who threatened to kill me years ago. He is moving toward Afoso with his gun drawn.” Cudjoe blew his abeng and told Afoso to move. Afoso shifted quietly and the overseer walked right by almost stepping on his hand.

  “We did not get enough supplies from this plantation,” Cudjoe said thinking aloud. “The white men sent for their friends.”

  “So we will have to go to another one,” Jelani said as they ambled even further to the hills. They were heading toward the central meeting place.

  “In a couple of weeks we will go to the Simmonds plantation,” Cudjoe said hatred blazing from his eyes, he had never forgotten the way the overseer had treated him and he had never forgotten how Martha the house slave refused to go with him valuing her comfort as a high coloured house slave than being with him.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Asha lingered at the stream for a longer time than was wise. She could hear the bells signalling the end of the days work for the slaves and the shuffling as they walked toward the eating area.

  She brushed herself off, was Mark going to tell her that he liked her? She wouldn’t dare believe such a thing. But he had given her a locket. He had given her, a slave girl who worked in his father’s house, a locket.

  She was still in awe. Prudence had dictated that she go back to the kitchen and continue her work but not even the threat of Mamee’s sharp tongue could have sent her scurrying back to the Great House. She had a niggling feeling that Mark was going to say something important. She wandered back to the kitchen and stood in the dim interior as Mamee and Jamelia bustled about and commanded the staff.

  Mamee looked at her and held up her hands in the air in despair.

  “It’s a good thing the Massa isn’t here,” Mamee said exasperatedly, “or else you would be in big trouble. Go and change into your uniform to serve him.”

  “But I can’t,” Asha said looking at Mamee wide eyed, “I have never served before.”

  “More responsibility,” Jamilia grunted in the corner, “twill show you that you are not one of them.”

  “I don’t think I'm one of them,” Asha said stubbornly.

  “Tell her Mamee,” Jamilia said smugly, “tell her that meeting the Massa’s son in secret places and looking at him all starry eyed isn't good for her.”

  Mamee sat down on a stool and started to fold cloth napkins, the kitchen was hot and she felt as if she was suffocating. She was suddenly feeling her age. She looked up at young Asha and smiled slightly.

  “Set the table for twelve guests. The Massa and his council members will be eating here after they stop the maroons from destroying whichever plantation they decide to attack.”

  “Mamee I … ” Asha whispered. Mamee’s smile had looked tired and worn at the edges as if she had given up on her.

  Mamee held up her hand, “Go Asha.” A pain gripped her chest and she inhaled weakly. The truth was that she was not feeling well enough to argue or to chide her wilful granddaughter.

  Jamilia looked at her sharply, “you are sick Mamee you need to go to Mother Esther for a cure.”

  “I'm not sure I have the energy anymore,” Mamee said forlornly, “I can barely see when the pains attack my chest. Tears came to her eyes—I fret over Asha—when I die she will be in trouble, I am sure of it.”

  “Might be, she will run away and join the maroons,” Jamilia said under her breath.

  “Or might be she will stay and serve Massa Mark,” Mamee said sadly, “and be further enslaved by love.”

  The dinner party wasn't going well. Massa Robert was angry, his hair, which was normally well groomed, was sticking up all over his head and the veins in his neck were standing up. They were discussing the boldness of the maroons. Asha kept glancing at Mark; her hands trembled when he smiled at her. The other council members were barely paying attention to their food, one man whose name was Lemmings kept hiccupping and coughing. His eyes would well with tears when the men described the massacre at the Penwood plantation.

  “What we need to do is to sign a peace treaty with them. We are going about this wrongly, we cannot fight fire with fire. Nobody knows the hilly interiors of this country like the maroons.” Mark said after one plantation owner suggested that more soldiers should be deployed to fight the maroons.

  The suggestion was met with silence.

  Robert coughed uncomfortably

  “That’s not a bad idea,” Lemmings said contemplatively, “of course they would have to offer to return runaways to us and not to plunder our plantations.”

  There was a loud murmur
in the room as each council member whispered to the other. Robert looked at his son and smiled, he had anticipated mutiny at the suggestion but alas it seemed as if the men were at the end of their tether and would consider any solution. The maroons had in the space of a year destroyed many of the plantations on the island, causing many plantation owners to flee because it was costly to rebuild and acquire new slaves.

  Mark looked at Asha, she had her eyes cast in a demure expression of servitude, her slight young body was encased in one of those voluminous dresses made from cheap white material, her dark dusky skin had yellow undertones and her shy smile had a high wattage when she peeked at him.

  Her smile brought back the sensation of the sun touching him in the late evening. Today he was going to tell her that he loved her but was interrupted.

  What good would that do though? He was what he was and she was what she was and they were both trapped in their circumstances.

  He looked at his father’s guests again as they reacted and counteracted his statement with passion. He looked at Asha, if he was to be honest with himself, she was the only slave that he was passionate about.

  He smiled broadly as Lemmings hiccupped and his neighbour slapped him forcefully on the back, his wig fell off and dropped in his plate. Lemmings gingerly took out the offending wig and continued eating.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The sun's rays made no impression on the thick fog that sat like a comfortable wife on the top of Nanny Town. The settlers shivered and went about their business as normal, some of the boys were going to hunt wild pigs and the girls were gathered around the village weaver as she demonstrated her skills at weaving straw. The boys appointed as guards were changing posts and one or two old men could be seen designing and making abengs.

  The horn was very important to the maroons; its distinct sounds could actually relay messages over great distance. The old men demonstrated its use and the children aptly listened and practiced.