I shared some of Arnold's relief as we entered our carriage and prepared for the journey back towards the comparative sanity of our plantation. The convivial season of Christmas lay some weeks hence, but the spirit of goodwill was already in the air. Before we could take our leave large numbers of over-excited negroes gathered about, begging us to give them some remembrancer of the season. This we declined to do, though we did bestow upon each one of them a broad smile. Soon they would receive more tangible rewards, for Arnold informed me that every Christmas the negro enjoys four pounds of pork and two quarters of sugar, with children under twelve receiving half allowance. Often an ox is killed and a fresh portion of meat distributed, and for all the sambos this is a time of great merriment during which they regularly powder each other with flour and play contentedly. Even our negro attendants grinned and joked as we made our way back through the pitch black night, but I did, however, suspect some application of the rum encouraged their joviality.
We had travelled for some minutes beyond Baytown before I realized that we were not making directly for our plantation. I glanced at Arnold who chose not to return my concerned enquiry. This being the case, I decided to submit to the capricious nature of this new adventure. To my right the exotic fraternity of a line of coconut trees determined where land ended and sea began. To my left the light breeze combed through the cane-fields producing a coarse, though not unpleasant, whisper. The moon was bright, though not full, and after turning into a narrow ascending lane, I soon recognized the dark silhouette of Hawthorn Cottage looming ahead. Our negro attendants drew the carriage to a halt, and Arnold provided a supportive arm as I stepped down to the ground. Then, to my surprise, but to my relief also, the servile brace retired into the wilderness of tall grasses and left myself and Arnold quite alone. Arnold's first gesture was to turn and look upon me, which he did politely, but I could read about his manner a desire to touch my face. We stood together, neither one daring to breach the silence, until Arnold cleared his throat as though to speak. But he chose to remain silent. He found the courage, I am happy to say, to make contact, and very soon we felt able to hold each other. Perhaps the heat has introduced some weakness of character into my person, but I must confess to not feeling any guilt as a result of this new intimacy. If the truth be told, the single emotion that came rushing into my body was that of happiness; pure, undistilled, happiness at my good fortune to have discovered a man such as Arnold in the tropical backwater of the Americas.
It often happens in life (and certainly in the novels with which I used to amuse myself in England), that at precisely the moment one expects fortune to smile, clouds of doom descend and obscure that sweet countenance. Not a fortnight has passed by since the merchant's dinner, yet the atmosphere about the plantation has suddenly deteriorated from the levity that one associates with the preparations for Christmas, to sinister intrigue and fear. The goddess Discord has flourished her arms and ushered in wordy war, causing the whole neighbourhood to rise in commotion. The question is the recurrent one of what to do with the recalcitrant African, Cambridge. I have been unable to discover his full history from Stella, for she is reluctant to speak of him, save to inform me in her grotesque lingo that he is a good man and in the right in these continual skirmishes. 'Missy, he good man. You no know what dat man suffer.' Stella did, however, confirm that in spite of all the barriers in his way, this Cambridge is lettered, can read his Bible, and even endeavours to teach it to his fellow blacks, which leads me to conclude that, indeed, this ancient Cambridge is no ordinary negro. Furthermore, it appears to be the case that Mr Brown did in fact offer Cambridge the position of Head Driver as part of his plan to compel some lesser drivers to accept relegation to lowly positions, such as watchmen, and thereby undermine long-established bonds of friendship and loyalty between the field-slaves. Unfortunately, Cambridge refused to collaborate with Mr Brown's scheme. And now this festering conflict has caused some friction between myself and my companion, Stella, though this difficulty merely mirrors the larger conflict between black and white on the plantation.
Dancing, music, and jesting, after the negro fashion, seem to have ceased. They have been replaced with men who, eyes half closed, loll against a wall, or lie inert upon a sunny bank, and wilfully doze away leisure hours until called upon to return with reluctance to the labours of the field. Beyond the staring whites of their eyes, and the glittering rows of dazzling teeth, I can now see that the saturnine house-servants look upon me with a new suspicion. As soon as they think me out of earshot they renew their animal chatter as though I am in some way responsible for this disagreeable situation. They obviously assume that I am prejudiced on the side of the young overseer in this irksome dispute, but in this they are mistaken. I am merely waiting for Arnold to dispense his justice, being confident that whatever decision he reaches will most likely be the correct one.
A second cause for concern is Christiania, who has chosen this moment to disappear. Again the plantation is divided along rather crude lines, with the blacks having some knowledge (or so we feel) of her whereabouts, and the whites wishing to have her declared a runaway and so set in motion a hunt for her black hide. Should she be recaptured she will naturally be thoroughly flogged or else transported, a punishment which the majority of the whites, having been compelled to endure the arrogance of this woman, would dearly wish to see. It would be difficult for the outsider properly to discern the nature of this unhappy atmosphere, for it is possible that the stranger might mistake this sourness of heart for the feelings that normally occur in this clime, and indeed fail to recognize anything particular amiss. But to those of us, black and white, who are familiar with plantation life, this new unease is causing deep distress.
This morning, over breakfast, I chanced to mention to Arnold that he might consider arriving at his decision before Christmas. He asked me which decision, clearly now conscious of the double judgement in his keep. I took it upon myself to suggest that the decision over Cambridge was the more urgent of the two, for the curious behaviour of this over-confident, Bible-reading slave demanded immediate attention. I confessed to Arnold that to my observation this bondsman had about his gaze an unsound quality. Furthermore, I insisted that he seemed determined to adopt a lunatic precision in his dealings with our English words, as though the black imagined himself to be a part of our white race. Arnold mused on all that I said, then added that because the blacks were destroying the goodwill of the Christmas season he would soon pronounce upon Cambridge. If necessary, the matter of Christiania could wait until the new year for it seldom happened that a runaway managed to leave the island. In the case of this witless negress, successful flight to a distant shore seemed highly unlikely. We ate in silence for a short while, until I asked Arnold if surely there was not something else that was troubling him. I insisted that the circumstances of my being on the island could not, of course, be permitted to unseat the established system of discipline which secures the labour and obedience of the slaves. Arnold said nothing. I continued, pointing out that although I suspected a woman such as myself must occasionally prove an intolerable nuisance for one such as Arnold, I was prepared to risk tarnishing my own reputation as good company if only I might provide him with a secure vessel into which to pour his well-corked grief.
Eventually Arnold spoke, but he would not look me in the eye, offering only the cropped pate of his head. He admitted that due to a virulent strain of cane-blight the sugar was not as healthy as he had hoped, and he feared for the financial returns on this year's harvest. This worry was compounded by the fact that an overseer close to Arnold (although he was too discreet to divulge the man's name) had developed the powerful dispatcher known as the yaws, a terrible and obstinate contagion transmitted by illicit coupling with a black. On making its nauseous appearance the yaws brings with it frightful ravages, twitching pains extending to the very marrow, and a loathsome deformity of bone and flesh. The disease leaves the afflicted wretch at a distance from his fellow kind, often
abandoned by man and left to the mortal office of nature. Recovery, although rare in older sufferers, demands cleanliness, a nutritious diet without meat or salt animal food, and the dedication to observe this strict regimen despite the inward signs of pain and the outward signs of humiliation. Poor Arnold! That he should be compelled to observe such sufferings! This season of goodwill was rapidly becoming a nightmare for him. He took himself up to return to work with the spirit and posture of a man only too aware of approaching mortality.
How 'flat, stale and unprofitable' life can sometimes be! I speak now of Mr McDonald, who has just interrupted my afternoon rest to pay me an unsolicited visit. What is more, I fear his true purpose is out, for he asked me, in the manner of a hurt schoolboy, if it were true that I had dined with Mr Brown at a merchant's home. I answered in the affirmative, and added that I had enjoyed a pleasant evening, particularly the company of Arnold. Mr McDonald seemed somewhat taken aback by my confirmation of this and pleaded that he had any number of invitations to dine at all the influential houses on the island, and that he would be pleased if I might one day consider accompanying him. Without wishing to cause offence to Mr McDonald, I made it quite clear I already had a companion with whom I was more than satisfied. I indicated that it might make life difficult for all parties were I to be seen abroad with another man, and then I passed the situation back into his own no doubt capable hands and directly asked did he not think that this might be the case? Mr McDonald fell speechless. Jealousy is not an uncommon expression of the female temperament, but I believe its appearance in the male is altogether less openly displayed. Mr McDonald sat for some time staring at the space above my head, struggling with his emotions, not knowing my person well enough to declare, yet hoping that upon a hint I might speak. Upon the second, third, and perhaps even fourth hint, I had still not spoken. This was truly a painful encounter, and for the first time I realized what it can cost a man to declare his affection when he doubts a response. In a burst of generosity I attempted to free Mr McDonald from his dilemma by divulging I had information that a ship had been announced, and that I would probably leave for England soon after the Christmas festivities. This served its purposes, for Mr McDonald realized that he would now be excused on more equitable ground. He made a gesture or two in the direction of trying to persuade me to stay on for a few months longer, but then he took his departure. I watched as his carriage began to pick its way down the hill, and then I sighed as it disappeared into a parcel of breadfruit trees. Men, like polite women, should learn to restrain and control their emotions. I retired to my chamber and looked into my mirror. Perhaps the affections of all these men turn in due course to some brown-faced beauty.
This day has marked the beginning of the end of my sojourn in tropical America. Christmas is almost upon us and we should, black and white alike, be enjoying a period of rejoicing and spiritual renewal. Instead, I am daily subjected to tensions which test my fragile nerves, so much so that almost by the hour I feel myself sinking back into that weak state which so marred my arrival on this island. Mr Wilson has reappeared. I can find no other way to describe his appeal to my person, other than that he has thrown himself upon my mercy. I was relaxing after breakfast when Stella ushered onto the piazza a somewhat agitated black boy, who delivered a message in the incoherent slobber of negro speech that I should attend Mr Wilson in a Baytown boarding house. A hastily scribbled note, in what I assumed to be the hand of Mr Wilson, informed me that he had heard from a visitor to the neighbouring island, to which he had been exiled, that I had attended the merchant's dinner. According to his spy, I appeared to be a tolerant and well-mannered lady. I bade the excitable negro youth sit, and could not help but observe the affection that these poor blacks seemed to have for Mr Wilson. Stella beamed brightly, for truly a favourite had returned. After a moment's reflection I ordered my skittish sable duenna to have a carriage and pair prepared, for I determined that if I was going to rendezvous with this Mr Wilson I would do so before the sun was high.
En route, one slight unpleasant incident served further to try my fragile constitution. A few hundred yards beyond the village of Middle Way, I was accosted by a two-parts naked, one-part tattered little she-slave walking rapidly and energetically along the road. Upon her skull she sported a thick black that of frizzy wool, and through the thick encrustation of dirt I was able to discern the blackest, most leathery skin. Her sole request, with proffered claw, was the irresistibly ludicrous, 'Misses, misses, you please to buy me a comb for me to tick in me head.' The unfragrance of the negro came from earth, not heaven, and I was obliged to clap a lace handkerchief to my mouth and nose as we took our leave of this mahogany imp. A mile to the north-west of Baytown I espied some sassafras trees putting forth deliriously fragrant tassels of leaves and blossoms which enabled me to remove my handkerchief. These flowering shrubs, along with others new to my acquaintance, enchanted me with their strangeness, as did the wonderful butterflies which seemed to me almost as large as birds.
The rooming-house to which Mr Wilson's negro escorted me appeared to be in a most ruinous and battered condition. It was surrounded by a tiny strip of garden-ground that was barely rescued from the stretch of sandy deposit which bore the weighty name of street. From the vantage point of my carriage I might descry that the exterior paint of this dwelling had long since peeled away, that damaged boards needed repairing and in some parts replacing, and I imagined that there could not be a hinge upon any door that had not been long in the deepest need of oil. Instructing my negro driver not to stray, I followed Mr Wilson's black messenger into the dark interior and on into a small room where my father's former manager, a robustly built, though now ageing man, sat with his onerous new companion, poverty. The whole furniture of his room consisted of a chair, a wooden bench, a basin, a ewer, and a relic of soap of great antiquity. I saw a stained towel, and a glass for one's teeth, but little else. The open window of the room commanded an uninterrupted prospect of the kitchen, an open shed unfit for the stabling of a horse. There being evidently neither hostess nor chambermaid to serve me, Mr Wilson himself presented me with a glass of sangaree. Then, without more formalities, he rapidly engaged me in conversation, explaining that he had been banished by Mr Brown at gunpoint. Mr Brown, he declared, will brook no discussion on any topic; although Mr Brown is a good cane-man, fear, not debate, is his method of government. In short, he seemed keen to impress upon me that through a perverse stubbornness Mr Brown was mismanaging and abusing the property of my family, and that had Mr Wilson not been in fear of his life he would never have abandoned the estate. Mr Wilson's parting shots on the subject of Mr Brown were to assure me that, by nature, overseers are inclined to be irascible, but this man's nerves ceased to be under control once the sun was vertical!
Briefly our conversation floundered, then I explained to Mr Wilson that although I knew relatively little of island life I had been reliably informed that he had been dismissed for theft. At this Mr Wilson threw back his head and roared with laughter. Stealing! Did I not know that he was the most steadfast of Christians? In his whole life he had never stolen so much as a fruit from a bush. His only crime, he told me, was over-zealous civic pride, and a care for the welfare of the slaves. He had pursued the maximum profit compatible with humane decency. He was, he insisted, unwilling to see the negroes suffer the debilities brought on by cruel oppression for the sake of naked profit. His laughter took on something of the quality of bitter rage, so fiercely did he continue to mock the suggestion that he could be guilty of theft. By now I was so confused that my feverish head had begun to spin anew. I listened perplexedly as Mr Wilson lectured me on civic pride, claiming that despite the providence of God and nature, there was little that could be called beautiful in the West Indian townships, for nobody cared. The streets were poorly laid out, the public and private buildings mostly clumsy wooden structures, and only the churches and Government House had a scrap of style or dignity. True enough, inside of these ramshackle buildings things cou
ld be quite tidy, and even comfortable at times, but neither outward appearance nor civic amenity seemed to be given any consideration.
Mr Wilson, seemingly oblivious of my manifest distress, pressed on, condemning the unpaved streets, the great abundance of verminous rats, insects and reptiles which soiled both street and dwelling place. I wondered about the neighbouring island on which Mr Wilson had sojourned, and asked after him if it were any better cared for. On this topic he dilated at length, claiming that neither it, nor any of these English islands, could boast anything worthy of a glance. They were the holding stations for those who simply wished to extract profit to be lavished on English gaming tables and other more domestic vices. Mr Wilson seemed happy to admit that his unpopularity with the white citizens stemmed from his inclination to speak candidly upon such matters. According to Mr Wilson, what led to his downfall was his defence of a free black from the abuse of power by a petty white retailer. While Mr Wilson was occupied with this philanthropy, Mr Brown, with the assistance of the lesser orders of white power, conspired to unseat Mr Wilson, though he gained much public support from the blacks and even the responsible whites when the black was magically acquitted and the retailer fined. Much to the dismay of the blacks, Mr Wilson was then compelled to run for his life from the mob of whites.
This really was too much. I protested, pointing out that in the not too-distant past Mr Brown had been involved in litigation which resulted in the punishment of a book-keeper for alleged abuses of a slave. My host smiled and commented that perhaps the petty tyrant Brown is learning that it is not possible forever to conceal injustice. I cautiously concurred, then quickly added that it was not possible for me to know for I did not have access to the mind of Mr Brown. Following a rather uneasy silence, I rose to my feet and proposed that it might be better for all concerned if I took my leave. Mr Wilson had the good grace to acknowledge that he was aware that I lacked the power of either censure or discipline, and with this he escorted me to the street. Mr Wilson told me that he would lodge at this rooming-house until the new year, when he planned to return to England, as fortune would have it, by the same ship on which I was due to travel. We bade each other an uneasy farewell, for I was unable to disguise the distress that our discussion had laid upon me. Upon my return I retired swiftly to my bed-chamber, where I called Stella to attend to me. I asked for some thin gruel to drive out the cold for the strength was rapidly quitting my weak womanly body.
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