by Sienna Brown
Mistress Margaret hold the funeral up in the little white church on the hill. I is surprised to see how many people come from all round the parish. Specially since I know most of them never even been to the plantation before. And they come all dressed up in them Sunday best.
‘To be seen. To gossip later,’ Melon say.
Stella, Sammy, Eliza and me, we all go to the funeral. Stand together at the back of the church. Make Mistress Margaret upset when she see us, but we is family whether she like it or not.
The service don’t last long. Just long enough for the priest to tell everybody what a good man Massa was. How much him going be missed. And may God rest him soul. Then we all return to the plantation where they lower Massa body into the grave. Cover it all up. Hold a wake in the Great House where Mistress Margaret serve plenty food and drink. Must be well past midnight before the last person leave and we all catch some rest.
Everything happen so fast, none of us can really believe it. One day Massa here. The next, him gone. Buried beside Old Massa William up on the hilltop. And as in life, so in death, him get the plot with the best view. Mistress Margaret walk up there every day, tell Winston to bring flowers and plant them.
A few weeks after the funeral, Eliza and me walking past the Great House when Mistress Margaret come rushing out the front door. She in a terrible state, her hair sticking up all over the place. Her clothes wrinkled like she been sleeping in them.
She walk up and down on the verandah shouting.
‘Where is my son? Where is my Cargill? What have you done to him? First my husband, now my son. What a wicked, wicked, evil place this is.’
Then another day, she pick up her skirt, stumble down the path through the little forest of dogwood trees. Enter every slave hut, start throw belongings out the door. Happy to see frightened faces when she shout out.
‘I want you filthy Negroes off my property. Get out! Get out all of you! The sooner I see the back of you wretches, the better,’ before Sydney come rushing down, hustle her back up the path.
Most time though, she stay in her room, keep all the shutter them closed, don’t let in a ray of sunlight. Spend day and night alone, lock herself away, not eating, only drinking glass after glass of Melon ginger beer.
‘She make me mix it up with plenty rum,’ Melon tell me. ‘Pity the poor woman, she still in deep mourning, grieving hard for her son.’
Mistress Margaret think she is the only one grieving. What bout Stella children, grieving for a father. We each suffering in our own worlds.
One morning when she take to her bed, overcome with sadness, with the heat, I take a walk up that hill to the plantation burial ground. Sit by Massa grave, look out over the canefield them. Listen to the leaves rustling, crows cawing in the distance, hoping sound going calm my soul.
The thorn, the lie grumbling between Massa and Stella bout me birth, it finally get plucked out, but it leave behind a terrible brooding at how it shape me life.
Have twenty seasons under me bare, stubbed toes. I am no longer a boy. Now a man. But have nothing to show for it. Is true I learn to carve out a place in this chatteled world. Turn stonemason. Get sent out jobbing, do the work good. No chains round me neck, but hidden deep within the skin. Massa taught me what I is. A nothing, a slave. And I learn it good. Now Massa gone, maybe I can learn something new. How to be a different man. A man not afraid to reach out and take him just rewards.
Before long, two militia officers come riding up on them horses. Start to ask questions. Spend a long time talking to Winston bout the field slave them. Who come, who go, who hold a grudge against Massa. Line up all the house slaves. Get them to enter a little room Busha Davis set aside. Talk to them, one by one. Talk to me and Sammy and Stella too. Write down all the day and time them, where we been, what we do. Write it all down in a little black book that get full up with more and more of the word and number them.
Next thing I learn, soldiers go out hunting for Robert McKellar. Find him up in Montego Bay, put him in chains, drag him off to the gaolhouse. Before too long, word reach Rock Pleasant that backra accusing McKellar of murdering Massa and them going put him on trial.
When Stella hear, she take the news hard. The dark cloud round her shoulders get even darker, and grief join the fear that spread tight cross her face. Everybody must think the grief for Massa, but I know is for McKellar. He is her long-time special friend. She been seeing him from when I was a pickney. I remember how on market days after all the selling, she used to take me to the rum shop and McKellar show up. Him was always pledging him life to Stella. And when she smile sweet at him, him used to tell her, ‘Me going do whatever it take.’ Maybe she ask him for something special, something too big. But when I ask her if she know what happen, she tighten her lips and say nothing.
Finally we get the news. McKellar been found guilty. Him going hang. Next thing we hear, McKellar family come down from the mountains, ride into Montego Bay, collect the body and take it back up to them village. McKellar was well respected, liked and the funeral turn out to be a big one, with many people attending to pay them respects. Stella wanted to go bad, but is two days travel just to get there. And she know Mistress Margaret going never let her go to the funeral of the man that backra say kill her son. During the day, Stella too proud to show how she feeling, but Eliza tell me, every night she weeping till the first cock crow.
‘First Massa. Now McKellar,’ Calla start up after a day of work when I go visit her and end up sitting outside her hut drinking bush tea. ‘Death come to visit too close together,’ she say, shaking her head. ‘Snatch away the two men that love up Stella.’
‘Massa love Stella? Must be keep it well hidden.’
‘Not just one type of love,’ Calla say. ‘Love can rope people together in warmth in kindness, keep the shadow at bay. That is the kind of love McKellar give her. Then there is the kind Massa hold to. A jealous, cruel love that entangle dem, drag dem down, give the shadow plenty to gnaw at.’
‘You think she love dem back?’
‘Love dem different. McKellar, him come to be more like friend. The only one she can trust. Massa, she learn to love. Is how she survive. It go right back to when dem was little,’ Calla say, lighting up her pipe. ‘If you see Stella, you going see Massa trailing behind. Dem run round the yard, chase after chickens. Climb trees, raced each other to the top. Pick fruit, teased the dogs, till the time come for the parting of the ways. Stella, she must learn her path not the same as Massa. Him must understand him going be her massa one day.’
A few weeks go by. The plantation start return to normal, just as if Massa still alive. The canefield them get weeded, clothes get washed, food cooked, cows taken out to pasture. Busha Davis keep running the plantation till Mistress Margaret can decide what she going do, and it seem like finally, all is laid to rest. Underneath though, I have this churning feeling. Like when storm skies come up over the horizon and they get darker the closer them get.
Dark like the jackets of the militia men when them come snooping round the plantation again. Rumours start flying everywhere. And before you know it, after all the questions finish, plenty finger pointing going on.
One morning, me guarding the plantain walk when I see Eliza running down the path. She all out of breath.
‘Soldiers come looking for Stella. They also looking for you,’ she tell me. ‘They pass by the canefield marching in a row. Winston get up on him horse. Come riding up to the Great House to give the news. Cause a big ruckus. One of dem – must be the captain – him spend long time talking to Busha Davis. Then him call out Stella. She put on a clean apron, go stand on the verandah all nice and quiet-like. You should see Stella face,’ Eliza say, wringing her hands. ‘When the captain call out they going arrest her for the murder of Massa. They coming here next,’ Eliza tell me. ‘You must run, escape. Get on that mule. Ride far, far away.’
Trial
The young cane in the field them already starting to ripen. Is the dry season, not too hot, not
too windy. Soon the fierce heat of summer set in. But Stella and me, we not going see it.
What we doing? Waiting for the trial to begin.
We been locked in a gaol cell for bout a month. Stella in the next cell beside me, but they won’t let me see her. Only see her when the legal man, Mister Grignon, come and him sometimes question us together.
‘To prepare the case,’ him say.
Some days they let me out the back to walk, stretch me legs. But no amount of leg stretching going stop me from feeling all hemmed in like what we do to the animal them.
The rest of the time? Eat. Sleep. Stare at walls.
When I start to fret, I stand on the little box to look out the window onto the main road leading into town. Bring back happy memories of when I was staying with Mistress Josephine, Winnie and little Rose. If only I could step back into that time.
The gaolhouse close to the port, a noisy place, where all the backra bring them sugar barrels. Slaves roll them down to the beach and into the longboats that take them to the big sailing ships travelling to the Mother Country. Is just like Calla tell me, all them many seasons ago.
Cross the way is a large warehouse and every morning a boy come park himself in the shade of the overhanging roof. Must be one of them free coloureds. Have a basket of fruit and sweetmeats that him selling. When a carriage get close, the boy jump to attention, try to make a sale. Sometimes I see a gentleman bang him walking stick on the carriage roof. Make the driver pull on the reins.
‘Whoa! Whoa, steady now!’
The gentleman lean out the window.
‘Over here, boy.’ And the boy run over hand him a little bag of sweetmeats, receive a few coins, hold them careful like they is precious. The carriage start up again, the young boy running long side shouting.
‘Thank you, Mister. Thank you.’
Is a wealthy town, this Montego Bay. Would be a good place to make home. I look at that boy and wonder what life would be like if I was him. Maybe I would be able to make something of meself. I know this is just fancy dreaming, because me life right now is going nowhere. Except if backra have him way, straight to the hangman noose. So I keep looking out that window like me life depending on it.
The night before the trial, worry and dread sit heavy on me chest, make me turn this way, that way on the small wooden bunk we made to lay on. And me mind always bring me round to Stella. How come is always me, her first born, that end up getting roped up in all her scheming. First with Massa. Then with McKellar. It make me toss and turn thinking bout what going happen to me. Hanged by the neck till dead? Whipped and punished for something I didn’t do? As to Sammy and Eliza, if me and Stella gone, they only have Calla and Melon to look out for them. Probably even get sold. The whole thing is just one big sorry business. And because of Stella, me sitting right in the middle of it.
The next morning, I wake early in the twilight time just before dawn. Give up on catching any sleep. Watch as the sun creep into the cell, cross the ceiling. Rise, dress meself in the clean clothes they gave me to wear.
‘Cannot have you looking like that in the court now, can we?’ Mister Grignon said. ‘Judge Alexander would not stand for it.’
Go stand on the little box to look out the window. Might be the last time is what me thinking. Watch as one of the carriage them trundle by.
I keep looking till the carriage disappear turn off the main road and into the drive that lead to the back of the courthouse. Is then it come to me where I seen that gentleman before. A few days ago, him come to the gaol to speak to a prisoner bout another case him working on.
‘His name is Mister Jackson,’ Mister Grignon told me. ‘He’s working for the Crown. And in court, he’s going to try to prove that you and Stella killed your master.’
I still looking out the window when me hear the sound of keys jangling. The guard unlocking the cell door. Him move quick to bolt the irons round me ankles, then shuffle me out the gaol to a waiting horse-drawn wagon. Shove me up inside where Stella already waiting. I sit close, hold her hand, but when I try talk to her, she shake her head. Tell me to be quiet, must use the time to pray.
The drive to the back of the courthouse is a short one. Before I know it, the wagon stop and the wagon door open. The guard unshackle us, tell us to make haste as they herd us through a noisy, waiting crowd. The crowd move in close, shout and boo us. Cheer when a stone hit Stella in the middle of her back, make her stagger. The crowd keep pushing in closer and closer, lift up them fist like them want to kill us right there and then. The guards have to work hard to hold them back. We reach the front of the courthouse and the guards shove us inside, slamming the door shut. Make us move quick up the stairs. March us down the hall to different rooms, bolt the door, post guards outside.
Finally Stella and me get herded into the courtroom. The room is plenty big with high white walls, polished wooden floors and windows all round. In the middle is the prisoner dock. A wooden cell where we sit, shackled side by side. A man with a white wig sit up front looking down on us from behind a big bench. Must be the judge. And sitting to one side, a row of wealthy-looking gentlemen, all dressed up. Must be the jury, them that going decide our fate.
I buck up me courage, start to look round. Is a shock to see how many people sitting in row after row, all jammed together. And everywhere I look, all I see is angry faces. Not one friendly one in sight. Off to the side, I notice a group of free coloureds. Ladies and gentlemen dressed in them Sunday best. I look to see if Mistress Josephine is there, but she is not. No sign of Winnie, either. It would give me strength to see a kindly face I know.
The clock on the wall strike ten times.
Since the court session start, Mister Jackson and Mister Grignon been presenting them case. They look like two peacocks showing off them feathers. And many in the crowd starting to get restless. Finally the talking over and the judge say, ‘Mister Jackson, please call your first witness.’
Mister Jackson call on Doctor Watson. Him been coming to the plantation from since I was a boy. Cut off old cripple Jonnie leg. Him often used to join Massa and Mistress Margaret for dinner. Stay the night.
‘You were called in to where Mister Mowatt was lying in the parlour. Is this correct, Doctor Watson?’
‘Yes, I attended to Mister Mowatt.’
‘Please tell the court what you observed.’
Doctor Watson pull out a little book and start to read from him notes.
‘As the stocking of the deceased appeared to have been torn, the shoe off, the ankle rubbed, I surmised he had been thrown from his horse. But I could not account precisely for the accumulation of blood in his neck and for that which came from his body.’
Doctor Watson turn him gaze hard on Stella and me before him say, ‘Both wounds, however, had clearly arisen from personal violence.’
‘Objection, Your Honour,’ Mister Grignon say, jumping up. ‘On the one hand, Doctor Watson says he cannot account for the accumulation of blood on Mister Mowatt’s person, but then assumes that it was caused by personal violence.’
The judge look at Mister Grignon and him look back. ‘Objection sustained. Clerk, strike the last sentence from the record.’ Mister Jackson not happy and neither is the crowd. They start to murmur loud enough for the judge to bang on him little wooden block.
‘Please continue, Mister Jackson.’
‘So, Doctor, even though you don’t know the cause, you are positive Cargill Mowatt died from the wounds to his neck and the back of his body.’
‘Yes. The wounds were very deep. He lost a great deal of blood. There was nothing I could do for the poor man. I and his mother sat with him through the night. He died the following morning.’
‘Thank you, Doctor Watson. That will be all. You may step down.’
Doctor Watson open the little gate to the dock and head back out the court.
‘Please call your next witness, Mister Jackson,’ the judge say.
‘Given that these next set of witnesses are unable to
give a satisfactory meaning to the word oath, I will relay what they have reported to me.’
‘Objection!’ Mister Grignon say in a loud voice. ‘Am I to assume this means your next witnesses are slaves? And if so, how do we know that what you report back to us is not merely hearsay.’
Mister Jackson clear him throat and smile. ‘These reports were compiled in front of several witnesses, all of whom have signed a declaration stating as such – a declaration, which I present to the court as Exhibit A.’
‘Objection overruled,’ the judge say. ‘Proceed, Mister Jackson.’
‘Thank you, Your Honour. These witnesses will help to give context to the fact that although the court has already found the Maroon Robert McKellar guilty of killing Mr Mowatt, the Mowatt slaves that go by the name of William and Stella,’ him say, pointing at us, ‘are accessories to the crime.’
Then Mister Jackson open up him big book and start to tell the court what him learn. ‘Winston, the head driver on the plantation, told me he saw’ – him point at me – ‘the mulatto slave William and Robert McKellar several times in conversation. The day before the alleged accident, they even had breakfast at the Great House, together. He also overheard the other accused’ – him point at Stella – ‘the Negro slave Stella, complain that their master had driven away McKellar. Mister Mowatt had told her he did not want McKellar to visit the plantation anymore. She was very unhappy about this, because McKellar was a good friend.’
All this is true. But then him tell the court Winston say I turn up late for work on the morning of Massa death. What him don’t tell Mister Jackson is the reason why. Winston discover the evening before that one of the cattle gone missing. Him worried Massa going find out so him send me to find that cow, and I did. But it make it seem like me up to something. Make it seem like I could be off killing Massa.
Winston never liked that Massa didn’t let him punish me the way him can punish the other slaves. Whip them back, send them to the stocks. The only time Winston got him way was when him catch me stealing two plantains from the plantain walk. Ran tell Busha Davis, ran tell Massa. Got to punish me for stealing. Hurt bad when him break me front tooth. Then to add misery to injury, Massa held back me portion of saltfish at Christmas.