The Long Song Page 16

  Yet, her missus was still twittering, ‘If I had told him of the overseer arriving swift on his heels to take his place, that would have struck at John Lord’s throat. Oh, I should have told him that. I should have said that, Marguerite.’

  Through the long window, past the hissing of the cicadas and the chirruping of night creatures, July could discern yells and hallooing whistling upon the air. Drum beats pulsed from afar. Conches peeped and squeaked to awake the free. And her missus carried on, ‘I should have told him about the correspondence I have had from Mr Goodwin from Somerset Pen. Several letters of recommendation that overseer carries with him. He is coming as soon as tomorrow. Even Mrs Pemberton has talked very highly of him. She says he will understand this business better than John Lord ever could. I should have told him about this new overseer. Oh, why can I never think of clever things to say in time . . .’

  In an effort to interrupt her missus’s ceaseless babbling, July considered raising herself from her seat and treading her bare black feet within the footsteps of all those white overseers’ boots—to walk down the veranda steps and out of her missus’s employ. But instead, while still seated at the window, she commenced to yawn out loud and stretch herself long. Caroline Mortimer soon stared at her.

  ‘Are you no longer listening to me, Marguerite?’ she said.

  ‘Surely, missus,’ July replied, ‘but me just be t’inking that me is now free.’

  Her missus was suddenly quieted. How long did she gaze upon July in that muzzled silence? Long enough for the distant sound of a fiddle and a cymbal, that tripped-in softly through that open window, to gradually arrange its tangled notes into clear verse and chorus within both their ears. Then Caroline Mortimer’s reddened cheeks and troubled eyes began to strain with a smile that she had wished would look gracious. And, all at once, the missus, with quiet breathlessness said, ‘But you would not leave me, would you, Marguerite?’

  CHAPTER 20

  IT WAS AT 11 A.M. the next day, that a horse was heard approaching the great house at Amity. The rider dismounted his steed to bound up the steps at his own gallop. Robert Goodwin did not enter in upon the veranda growling at Byron to hold his horse steady or he’d see him whipped, as so many other overseers had done before him. He did not call out, ‘Oi, anyone there?’ while banging with his fist upon the pillar of the eaves, causing the whole house to shudder. He did not arrive slurring his words, as the Irish overseer did, whilst burping the foul odour of porter and rum upon the air. And he did not slap July hard upon her backside, feign the movement of fornication to her, then shout, ‘Tell yer missus it is ’er lucky day.’ No. Robert Goodwin stepped on to the veranda with his arms held high, like a preacher engaged in the glorification of the almighty.

  ‘A new day is come, Mrs Mortimer,’ he said. Then, with a broad, blithe smile that even shed its gleam upon July, Robert Goodwin rapturously declared, ‘Behold, a new morning has broken. Slavery—that dreadful evil—is at an end.’

  This new overseer was neither a ruffian nor a drunkard; he was a gentleman, the son of a clergyman with a parish near Sheffield. A man of six and twenty with soft hands, clean fingernails, and hair thick and dark as river silt. Although only standing to the same height as the missus, his upright and steadfast bearing made him appear two feet taller, at the very least. And no ugly whiskers nor shockingly bushy eyebrows befouled the youthful roses that still flushed at his cheeks. Robert Goodwin was someone who, in England, the missus could, with all propriety, have shaken by the hand. Come, his mother’s family even had a baronet residing somewhere within its ranks.

  After a long and lengthy visit to survey the field negroes at Amity, Robert Goodwin delivered his findings to the missus thus: ‘Such a number of poor, miserable black people I have never seen before, Mrs Mortimer. Their houses and gardens have been neglected—some are in perfect ruin.’

  Now, these words were precisely the same ones employed by the last overseer (just before that bluster of contempt for our missus had run him away, out of her employ), yet Caroline Mortimer gasped with such astonished ignorance at Robert Goodwin’s words that any would believe that this was her first time of hearing this charge. ‘Oh, whatever can be done?’ she exclaimed. ‘Just tell me, Mr Goodwin, and it shall be my wish, too.’

  When he continued with, ‘Firstly, madam, we must endeavour to restore their best feelings to you by telling them how fairly you intend to treat them now that they are free,’ and informed the missus that, ‘I will address all the negroes shortly within the mill yard. And Mrs Mortimer, you must accompany me on that mission—we must leave them with no question on whose authority I now speak,’ he was unaware that words similar to these, requesting actions that were identical, had once caused the missus such offence that she nearly—if only she’d thought of it in time—told the last man who uttered them to go to blazes. Although Robert Goodwin was wise enough for his brow to furrow in the fear that so forthright a command might cause his employer some displeasure, he need not have fretted, for the missus responded to him with unbounded enthusiasm.

  ‘Of course! Whatever you say,’ she said. ‘But do you think the negroes will heed us, Mr Goodwin?’

  ‘Oh yes, madam,’ he replied and when his frown moved from worry to pensive contemplation all in the raise of one eyebrow, the missus leaned forward upon her chair so she might listen with deeper fellow feeling.

  ‘Negroes are simple, good fellows,’ he went on, ‘They need kindness—that is all. When it is shown to them then they will respond well and obediently.’

  She tilted her head and a sympathetic smile appeared.

  ‘They are not so far from dogs in that respect,’ he said, which allowed our missus the chance to emit an attractive titter. ‘Please do not misunderstand my meaning, Mrs Mortimer.’

  Oh, no, no, no—our missus shook her head.

  ‘The African stands firmly within the family of man. They are living souls. God’s children as sure as you or I.’

  Of course, she mouthed soundlessly.

  It was only when he continued with, ‘But I know within my heart that now that they are free to work under their own volition, they will, if treated with solicitude, work harder for their masters,’ that the missus let a little doubt widen her eyes.

  She asked, ‘Are you sure of this, Mr Goodwin?’

  His reply, ‘I know it as surely as I know anything, madam,’ made her once more relax and adjust the lock of hair that continued to flop on to her forehead, despite the use of a pin. ‘It is for this reason that I have come to Jamaica. It was my father’s wish, of course. My father believed wholeheartedly that slavery was an abomination. “Take kindness to the negro, Robert,” he told me. “Show them compassion. Pledge yourself by all that is solemn and sacred to never be satisfied until the negro stands within society as men.” ’

  ‘Really?’ escaped our missus, but she lifted her fingers to her lips to smother the rogue quip.

  ‘England,’ he carried on, ‘that great, noble, Christian land of ours, must be cleansed of the abominable stain that slavery placed upon it, do not you think, Mrs Mortimer?’

  And said she wholeheartedly, ‘Oh yes, Mr Goodwin.’

  ‘Oh how that gladdens me, madam,’ the overseer carried on. ‘If only all planters upon this island felt as you do. The attorney at Unity, my first position, simply laughed in my face. And Mrs Pemberton at Somerset Pen, although a good Christian woman, just could not reconcile labour with kindness. Both were unwilling to hear my father’s simple message.’

  ‘But not I,’ the missus said quietly and demurely. This simple compliment that the new overseer had paid her—that he, on such short acquaintance, could discern that she was indeed more compassionate than Mrs Pemberton and more reasonable than that dullard at Unity—caressed Caroline Mortimer as surely as the light fingertip strokes she began to lay upon her own neck. And although the overseer was about to carry on with more of his papa’s musings, he did not yet realise how capable our missus could be with her own
windy-words when roused.

  ‘I inherited this plantation,’ she continued while staring earnestly into his face, ‘from my own dearly departed brother. And even though he was brutally and savagely slain at the hands of a fearsome, bloodthirsty negro—but let us leave that distressing story for another day—I have, since becoming mistress of this plantation, always endeavoured to be kind. I have, in the past, been thwarted in my mission by the sometimes thoughtless actions of my agents and overseers. I hope that now that you are with us, Mr Goodwin, the improvement we both seek will be upon us soon.’ Then she smiled broad upon him.

  When Robert Goodwin took his leave of the missus that day, he bowed low with elegant grace. And following him out on to the veranda, she waved good-day to him as he departed, as if he were her valued guest and not her employee. Then, once he was out of her sight, the missus suddenly grasped July tight by the arm. She leaned toward her with a playful giggle, as if July was a great friend with whom the missus simply must confide her secret and said, ‘Oh, hasn’t he the bluest eyes, Marguerite.’

  Not all negroes were present to hear Robert Goodwin’s address as he stood atop the empty barrels in the mill yard. Many were still laid upon their beds with heads too sore to listen to no bakkra man. Some were now too free to follow commands, while others, packed up already, had fled from that benighted negro village. But nearly one hundred negroes did linger before him—fanning themselves with banana leaf, eating yam, calling pickney to them, shooing a dog, scratching their head, picking their teeth, yawning, chatting upon the show of his brown leather boots.

  They had come to see this new overseer who did ride in from Somerset Pen ’pon his tall-tall horse with him head filled with big ideas. There was Peggy Jump, fresh from the river, still with her washing piled upon her head, soggy and dripping through the wicker basket. She and her husband, Cornet, the mule-man who rode the cart to and from the fields, long ago did think that when free did come, them might leave Amity to seek their daughter, who was sold by the dead massa to a far, far away plantation in Westmoreland.

  Peggy did chat upon Mary Ellis that the last overseer, John Lord, was a good bakkra and how all the pickney did follow him to stare up his nose hole, for so much hair did sprout from it. Mary, straining her neck to get a little look at this new overseer said, ‘But him not a tall man. With no hat ’pon him head or barrel under him, he be lost in crab-grass.’

  Mary, who worked the first gang with Peggy, had for too long shared a house with Peggy and Cornet; for her own home perished under hoof and flame upon that dreadful riot night. And up to now, never repaired! Just two sticks of it remain—worthless but for cruel remembering and tethering the goat. Mary’s Sunday prayer was never to hole, never to strip, never to manure, wretched cane no more. But, if she could get a little use off Peggy and Cornet’s house once them had lif’ up for Westmoreland, then without Cornet to snore her out of every bit of slumber, she would sleep blessed under that stout roof.

  And there was James Richards. Any word this new overseer man would utter was going to vex him, and the white man had not opened his mouth yet. ‘Me never be a slave no more. Me a freeman,’ this carpenter did complain to any who could hear. ‘Me no have to listen up no bakkra no more.’

  ‘True, true,’ the boiler-man, Dublin Hilton, said. Dublin did think of going nowhere. Come, him was too old and now them seal up dungeon, all was not so bad. Plenty-plenty place worse. And Elizabeth Millar, who did come from her provision ground still carrying her hoe over her shoulder, told James loudly that the Queen did command that negroes must stay in their houses and work their lands.

  Samuel Lewis hissed on her to hush so him could hear. Him made plenty money from his fishing and grounds. Him was a man of trade now and must come to some likkle arrangement with the bakkra so him may stay near the river.

  While seated upon the ground in the line of some shade were Bessy and Tilly. Bessy was on the light-work people, since two of her fingers were crushed off in the mill. She did think to stay but had heard that bakkra must fetch a jobbing gang from Unity, and she would not work with no niggers from Unity. Oh no. For them be filthy, tricky, and idle. And Tilly was just staring on the scarlet bow upon the missus’s straw bonnet and wishing she were a white woman too . . .

  But all who saw Robert Goodwin—dressed in his brown cutaway jacket with a striking panama hat upon his head—had no doubt that this new overseer was a preacher’s son; for his oration possessed the ardour of the most divine sermon. He began resonant and clear, ‘Good morning to you all. Your mistress, Mrs Mortimer, who is seated here beside me has, by the grace of God, and the law of England, granted you your freedom. No one can now oblige you to continue to work for her.’

  One roaring hurrah ran out from that crowd before him. The overseer had to raise his palms for quiet once more. ‘But there is something that each one of you must remember. So listen to me well. The houses that you live in and the grounds that you work, do not belong to you. They are the property of your mistress. No matter how long you have lived within a house, how much effort you have extended to fix up that dwelling, or labour you have put in upon your garden and provision ground, these still belong entirely to your mistress. Now, be sure to heed me well, every one of you. If you will not labour for your mistress as you have done before, then you cannot expect to remain within your house. If you do not work hard for her then you cannot expect to continue to harvest your provision grounds. Those good souls who are willing to work for fair and reasonable wages, you may remain within your houses for a small rent and you may work your grounds as you have always done. The industrious and well disposed of you, will do well. The idle, disorderly, indolent and dissolute, will neither thrive nor remain. I hope that you will all choose to work hard—within the cane fields, the works, the pen or wherever your superiors decide that your industry is needed—so that the plantation of Amity may thrive and prosper for your esteemed mistress.’

  Here the overseer lifted his arms to the heavens as he said, ‘And now you must all show yourselves grateful to your masters for having made you free. You must humbly thank God for this blessing of freedom. And you must prove to the Queen, the people of England, and your mistress, that you are worthy of the kindness that has been shown you.’

  James Richards nearly swallowed his last tooth, so long and hard did he suck upon it. And he was not alone in his cussing. Come, suddenly there was so much sucking of teeth that it did hiss like the draining of a well. This commotion soon caught the overseer’s ear and Robert Goodwin knew the insolence of that sound very well. He raised his palms to implore them to quell it. But angry muttering and chattering did begin to swell from that crowd. Some even walked away. Robert Goodwin had to yell raucous as a street caller to be heard when he lastly cried, ‘But know this. When a man pays money for labour he will only employ those who will work diligently and cheerfully. Heed me well. Diligently and cheerfully.’

  Caroline Mortimer, seated composed upon a chair throughout this whole announcement, had been gazing up upon this new overseer with the rapture of a lonely boy before a shooting star. She began to clap when he had finally finished, but soon stopped when she felt a hundred pairs of black eyes look upon her. Oh, what a storm negroes did conjure for the missus. So many savage eyes. She nearly passed out at the sight. She commenced to waft her sweet-scented handkerchief back and forth under her nose with some vigour, as she asked her overseer, ‘Do you think we have now restored their best feelings to me, Mr Goodwin? Do you think all will be well now?’

  And her new overseer, smiling broadly while dabbing sweat from his forehead with a white handkerchief, said confidently, ‘Oh yes, madam. Absolutely. I have not one doubt upon the matter.’

  CHAPTER 21

  ‘MARGUERITE.’ JULY HEARD HER missus call as fearsome black clouds reached across Amity to encase its lands, firm as a lid being sealed upon a box. The wind whipped the bamboos until they bowed within it. It stripped the cotton tree of all but clinging vines and compelled t
hose leaves to dance. Lightning—those devils’ sunbeams—cracked with startling, jagged veins before rain began spilling fierce as if overturned clumsy from a colossal pail. And her missus cried out again, ‘Marguerite, come here at once. I am calling.’ Streams ran everywhere July looked—snaking around bush, stone and tree to find the quickest path. Four, six, eight and one hundred-legged creeping things crawled to mass within the wet; lizards, excited, jumped from hidey-holes to feast, and mosquitoes waking from puddles launched as vicious mist. ‘Marguerite, where are you? Marguerite . . .’ After sultry heat, it was now chill enough for July to give a little shiver. She raised herself slowly from the stool upon the veranda with her skilful timing. Her missus found July dashing in from . . . somewhere; eyes wide with concern to do her missus’s bidding . . . of course.

  ‘There you are, Marguerite, did you hear me call?’

  ‘Oh me run so, missus, me be out of breath,’ July puffed.

  ‘Go to Mr Goodwin’s house and ask if he would care to dine with me this evening. A heifer was killed in the pen so Molly has some beef that must be eaten. I know he will be interested in beef.’

  Caroline Mortimer had begun to find such interest in her plantation that her daybed became quite neglected—come, its horse-hair was at last beginning to recover its shape. For, standing upon the veranda straining to look over the fields, peering through the windows or pacing the long room to find reasons why July must get a message to Robert Goodwin at his house—‘At once, Marguerite, at once!’—was how her missus now filled her day. ‘Perhaps I should enquire if everything is to Mr Goodwin’s liking at his house? Yes, tell him to pay me a visit . . . I must know of the new book-keeper the overseer has hired. Tell him to ride over to me on his way to the fields . . . A fine mistress I would be if I did not insist my overseer come to tell me how many hogsheads are going to the port today . . . Byron said that the negroes’ pigs have got into the fields again. Run and tell Mr Goodwin to deliver me a full account of any losses to the crop . . .’ And so on and so on.