The Long Song Page 9

  ‘Suddenly them flew from their concealment to jump upon these white men. Them seized their cutlass. Bound their hands. Blindfolded them and marched them to the works. And there . . .’ Nimrod looked from one person to the next, as best he could, whilst saying, ‘them threw those white men into the boiling sugar like them was three pieces of temper lime.’

  July gasped. As Nimrod leaned in closer to July, the little tuft of beard upon his chin waggled like a goat chewing upon grass as he whispered loud, ‘Only their hats floated upon the liquor.’

  July wished to pull at the bouncing strands of hair upon his chin to beg him to tell her the beginning of this tale, for it was lost to her while everyone else sat silent within the thrill of this fright.

  Except, that is, Godfrey, who after sniffing loudly said, ‘And where was the boiler man when them throw three men in his good sugar teache?’

  Nimrod leaned back, folded his arms, and lifted his eyes to the sky to answer, with a heavy sigh, ‘Him was drunk.’

  ‘The head man was drunk, you say?’ Godfrey said. Everyone, even Patience, sucked their teeth upon Godfrey, for he was clouding up this tall-tall telling.

  ‘Mr Godfrey, the boiler man was drunk ’pon rum him had stolen from the stores,’ Nimrod answered. And all gasped except . . .

  ‘And you say all this be going on as we sit,’ Godfrey said.

  ‘Let God be my witness. Let the Lord strike me down now if what I say is not true.’ Nimrod lifted his arms to let God declare him a liar by frying him in a fire bolt before this gathering. When no lightning struck, he carried on with, ‘Hear me now, the island is ablaze. They be fighting everywhere and white men be running for their lives. Them say militia so feared for the situation that they will pay Maroons good money for a pair of rebel negro ears.’ Nimrod leaned forward upon his seat to grab Byron, ‘And them no worried if there be no head in between. Who’ll give me a penny for these?’ he said, tugging the boy’s lobes. And oh, how everyone screamed . . . except Godfrey.

  As Nimrod sat back upon his seat, folded his arms and grinned, July noticed that he had lost more teeth since last she saw him, leaving his smile as mangled and forlorn as one of the missus’s broken-down hair combs. But at least those ugly chops were upon a freeman.

  ‘And so is we now all free?’ Molly asked.

  ‘Ah, well,’ Nimrod pondered.

  ‘Is we or is we not, Mr Nimrod?’ Godfrey questioned, with deep annoyance in his tone.

  Before answering, Nimrod carefully raised one cheek of his backside from the chair and, with a grimace of intense concentration, let forth a loud fart. Then giggling, he waved his hand in this emission to waft its pungent smell from him. Distaste clouded everyone’s face. Except Nimrod, who found it very amusing. Once the stink had passed, he composed himself enough to say, ‘Well, as you know, Mr Godfrey, I am a free man.’

  And no sooner had those words left his crooked mouth than Patience shouted, ‘Hold them!’

  July jumped to her feet to throw herself betwixt Godfrey and Nimrod. This movement was well practised by all the house servants at Amity; it was just that, on this occasion, July was the nearest to perform it. She held her arms wide between them, looking from one man to the other. Molly, poised keenly, was ready to catch Nimrod should he lunge, and Patience, marking Godfrey, was willing to do the same.

  For these two men could never be in each other’s company for long before some quarrel would erupt between them. Let the one over a hand of playing cards be my first example. Godfrey waved a fowling piece in Nimrod’s face and threatened to blast his head into meat for a hog if he did not admit to cheating. Then there was the weeks of sulking, protestations and dispute that went on when Nimrod, still the groom at Amity, was granted a boy from the massa to hold his mule—which made three within the stables—while Godfrey was left with just his one within the kitchen. And oh, reader, I have just remembered, but will you believe me? The flight of fancy which found these two men squabbling upon which one of them the coloured Miss Clara from Unity did find more agreeable. All but those two quarrelling buffoons knew that Clara would rather roll herself in horse dung, then walk naked down the main street than be friendly to either one of them. Yet in trying to settle this row, they delivered bloody noses and bruised eyes to each other’s faces.

  Nimrod thought Godfrey a fool. For here was a light-skinned man with opportunity as abundant as pods on a tamarind tree to relieve his situation. Yet when did the man ever heed Nimrod’s wisdom? A slave cannot steal from his master. The breath Nimrod wasted upon explanation could have been better used to blow a cooling breeze across the island. ‘Mr Godfrey, whatever is your massa’s, belong to you. When you take property from your massa, for your own use, him loses nothing. For you be his property too. All is just transferring. Everything you now hold is still your massa’s property. You just get a little use of it. What harm there be?’ Yet, instead of thanking Nimrod for this holy reasoning, Godfrey just talked of theft, magistrates, treadmills and floggings. Cha! Where did his virtue find him? Still a slave to white men who had grabbed, stolen and shackled his liberty. And now look, the fool has worked so slowly for his freedom that some nigger with fire and machete does have to complete his task.

  Godfrey, on the other hand, could not endure that Nimrod—black as sin, ugly, sly, rough, rude and no taller than a girl—was free. For Nimrod’s manumission was purchased with cunning. He poached from the massa—from behind his back and before his eyes—to raise that precious cash. Nimrod was noted in town for the dances he held. Come, Nimrod was known as the first steward of these occasions. Godfrey had told the massa this. He also made the massa aware that the knives, forks, plates and candles used at Nimrod’s parties were all supplied from the stores at Amity, as was the wine, spirits and often a bottle or two of champagne. Godfrey showed the massa the cards that Nimrod had printed to use as invitation (and costly ticket) to his regular guests—a promiscuous crowd of all colours—to come once more to his ‘club’ (on some back street in town) for an evening of ‘quadrille and merriment’. Godfrey even enquired of the massa if he had ever noticed that, on the days that his horse seemed to require a lot of resting, his fine damask waistcoat and linen jacket were often missing, only to appear later in need of a wash. Yet the massa paid no heed to Godfrey’s enlightenment—come, he rolled his eyes at the preposterous nature of it. For John Howarth was wholly convinced that his trusted groom, Nimrod—with his bow legs, crossed eyes and silly, toothless grin—was far too stupid to concoct such devious arrangements. And nothing Godfrey could say did change his massa’s belief.

  Godfrey was loyal and yes, he had begun of late cheating the missus a little by telling her that produce was dearer than he knew to be true. But what did it matter? He was still a slave and Nimrod was free to fart in his face.

  And yet these two warring men sought out each other’s company for they believed themselves to be like brothers. As few at Amity had any notion of how brothers behaved to each other, in that kitchen being a brother had come to mean two men in constant, bloody fight.

  But on this occasion Godfrey just gestured to Patience and July to once more sit, for there would be no blows or cussing today. He then stared upon Nimrod and smiled. In the silence that followed this curious truce, the missus’s voice was heard calling out for Marguerite. Nimrod, hearing this hoarse but plaintive mewl frowned, ‘What, your missus still here?’ he said.

  ‘Why not?’ answered Godfrey.

  ‘The massa gone to militia, but the missus still be here? She is not safe,’ said Nimrod.

  ‘Oh come, there been plenty-plenty trouble like this before,’ said Godfrey.

  ‘No, Mr Godfrey, there never been trouble like this.’

  Godfrey sighed. ‘What fuss-fuss.’

  ‘Mr Godfrey, come, let me tell you—I have not seen a white person in town for many days.’

  ‘No say.’

  ‘Me speak true. Some say they all gone.’

  ‘Gone!’ Godfrey said, ‘Where t
hey all go to?’

  ‘Some say them all sailed away when all this trouble start. Them pack up them belongings and leave the island, for they be frighted by the negroes that live all about them.’ Godfrey sucked his teeth while Nimrod looked upon his face as if staring upon a firm friend.

  ‘Is true, Mr Godfrey. The island is ablaze.’ Godfrey, seeing Nimrod’s concern leaned back and yawned.

  ‘You no feared?’ Nimrod asked him.

  ‘What I must be feared of?’

  ‘That them negroes fighting for them freedom come here with gun and wan’ you join them. Them no say, “Oh, please,” all nice-nice. “Oh, please, come help us burn and bust up this place till we is all free.” Them say, “You come or we burn the house, you come or we kill your missus.” ’

  Godfrey, staring silent upon Nimrod, heeded his words with no feeling, ‘If they come for the missus, they can have her,’ he said.

  July gasped, ‘Mr Godfrey, no say that!’ and was surprised by her own self. For the idea of her missus actually being seized by a rabble of black men did suddenly alarm July. All at once, there was Caroline Mortimer in her mind’s eye, her breath quick and gasping, her round cheeks red, puffy and wet with tears, her blue eyes swelling with pleading, her arms outstretched with podgy fingers splayed like a baby needing comfort, her fearful voice squeaking, ‘Marguerite, Marguerite, help me, please,’ while her blond curls quivered. Within that vision of her missus’s ravishment, July became soft with worry for her. For if anyone was going push her missus into a sugar teache until only her petticoat floated upon the brew, then it must be she and not some vengeful nigger. ‘But them will boil me missus in sugar,’ she cried.

  ‘Miss July, she must go to town,’ Nimrod said, ‘There be a ship in the bay. She must aboard that ship. She will be safe there.’

  ‘Marguerite! Let me out,’ the missus’s voice interrupted once more, shrill as the pipe of a bat.

  ‘Go tell her she must get to town, Miss July, to the ship,’ Nimrod repeated while looking to Godfrey to see if he agreed with this command. But Godfrey, yawning once more, just lifted himself from his seat to let out a deep and resonant fart.

  CHAPTER 11

  ‘FORGOT!’ CAROLINE MORTIMER CRIED. ‘I am forgot!’ She paced the room before July, so furious that the breeze she created blew out two of the candles.

  ‘All have left me to my fate, Marguerite. They care nothing of what becomes of me.’ July made rush to re-light the candles as her missus yelled, ‘How am I to see what must be packed, Marguerite, if you cannot keep the room lit? Will there be dining aboard the ship?’ She looked into July’s face with earnest, wide-eyed inquiry. July stood motionless—too feared to shrug in case her missus once more broke down into time-wasting sobs. ‘Oh, why am I asking you?’ her missus said, before answering her own question with an impassioned cry of, ‘Because I am forgot that is why, completely forgot and am in need of advice.’

  Her hands shook as she bit on her fingernail. ‘Will I need formal attire, Marguerite? Or will my smart day-wear, with a little ornament, do? Well, Marguerite, you are all that I have, what do you think?’ Having little knowledge of those social manners, July was left with no option but to shrug. Her missus then began ranting. She was in front of July scolding, behind her yelling, rushing past her sobbing, and then suddenly, she was before her, pointing a pistol at July’s head.

  ‘What good is this to me?’ she said. July swiftly ducked as the missus, swinging the weapon about her, shouted, ‘My brother has abandoned me! I am forgot. And I do not even know how to fire this piece,’ before dropping the gun to the floor.

  July, taking a step closer to her, had intended to once more reassure her missus that she would be safe and among other white people upon the ship in the bay. But before her breath was gathered for this assertion, her missus shouted, ‘And how do I know you are not lying to me and wish me from this house so you may steal everything we have. Who told you of this ship? Who came?’

  As July uttered the words, ‘Mr Nimrod,’ her missus stopped dead as if suddenly stiffened by salt.

  ‘Nimrod is here?’ she said with a gentle frown.

  Thinking the missus now calmed at the thought of Nimrod being near, July nodded. But her missus, almost quietly, began, ‘He made start on my garden, Marguerite. Took all the money for the work, of course, yet I have not seen him now for weeks. All manner of weeds are growing upon that ground now. My brother says Nimrod must have more pressing work than my garden of vines. But I had paid Nimrod to complete it and now my brother won’t hear a word from me upon the subject. Is Nimrod come to finish my garden?’

  ‘No, missus,’ July said, ‘him never mention your garden.’

  The fierce sigh the missus let forth blew out two more candles. ‘I am forgot,’ she wailed, ‘I am forgot and left with only negroes.’

  Caroline Mortimer bounced upon her toes, muttering over and over to herself, ‘Oh, I am forgot! Must I go? Should I go,’ as she waited with her packed belongings by the door for Godfrey to bring the carriage. ‘Where is Godfrey?’ she asked July, then yelled, ‘Come on, Godfrey, let us be gone.’

  Godfrey, slowly ascending the steps at the side of the house, was carrying a lamp which he set down so he might have both hands free to scratch the back of his head.

  ‘Hurry along, Godfrey. Pick up these things,’ Caroline said. Godfrey stared at the sack, the small trunk and the cloth valise that stood between him and the missus. His missus, with an exasperated sigh, indicated again at the items she wished Godfrey to transport.

  But Godfrey, still scratching upon his head said, ‘You wan’ me put these on the cart and take you into town?’

  ‘Of course, into the gig. And I am in a hurry to be gone.’

  ‘So you wan’ me lift them into the gig and then drive you to town?’

  ‘Godfrey, do not play the fool with me. You know I must go to town for my own safety until all this trouble is past. Now, let us be gone.’

  And Godfrey, looking down on the missus, sucked loudly upon his teeth before saying, ‘Then you must pay me, missus.’

  July cupped her hands over her mouth so her gasp and giggle would not escape. While all Caroline managed to utter was, ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Me said,’ Godfrey began, ‘that me will need payment if me is to take you into town.’

  ‘Payment?’ the missus repeated. She frowned upon Godfrey, then looked quizzically to July for some explanation of his behaviour. But July was silent—her mouth fixed with a grimace of a child in the thrill of a game.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Godfrey,’ Caroline said, ‘Now, pick up the things or I will see you punished for this.’

  Godfrey sighed. He then walked past the missus into the hall and sat himself down upon one of the massa’s wooden chairs. ‘Then punish me, missus,’ he said as he lifted first one leg, and then the other, over the arms of the planter’s seat and sat as if waiting for someone to remove his boots.

  Caroline Mortimer stamped her foot hard upon the ground. ‘When my brother hears of this, you will be whipped in the yard.’ Godfrey picked at one of his fingernails. ‘I will tell him to spare you nothing. The cat-o’-nine. I will say, use the cat-o’-nine-tails. He’ll whip you like a nigger. You’ll see.’

  Godfrey leisurely rested his head upon the chair back. He took a deep breath and spoke to the ceiling saying, ‘Missus, if them fighting for free niggers find me ’pon the road with you, then me throat will be cut, sure as yours. So me wan’ payment for taking you.’

  Caroline suddenly pulled July roughly to stand her in front of Godfrey. ‘Tell him, Marguerite, tell him I am quite forgot here and need to get to town.’

  She shook July so briskly that Godfrey said, ‘Leave her, missus. Let her go.’

  ‘Then are you ready to lift my belongings on to the gig and take me into town?’ she demanded.

  And Godfrey said, ‘Of course.’

  Caroline pulled upon her skirt to compose herself and said, ‘Good,’ as Godfre
y carried on with, ‘Soon as you pay me, you may be on your way.’

  ‘Get up, get up!’ Caroline jumped twice in her fury. ‘Do as you are bid,’ then made to strike Godfrey with her closed fist. But Godfrey seized both her wrists with so tight a grip that the missus’s face contorted into a wince. Her mouth fell open in wordless agony as Godfrey raised himself from the chair. As he stood higher, he bore down upon the missus’s wrists until the pressure of the pain impelled her to kneel in front of him. As the missus, overwhelmed by him, went limp upon the ground, Godfrey let go her wrists.

  July made move toward the missus, but Godfrey shouted, ‘Stop!’

  He sat once more, and began playing with his fingernail, while Caroline Mortimer, quivering at his feet like a fish newly landed from the water, slowly lifted her head, wiped her snivelling nose upon the back of her hand, and quietly asked him, ‘How much?’

  No, Godfrey decreed, her house girl Marguerite could not accompany Caroline Mortimer upon this journey into town. Why? Because Godfrey said so. And, oh yes, a point the missus must remember, her house girl was not named Marguerite—her name was July. Three times, Godfrey made Caroline speak that name. July giggled the first time of hearing the missus commanded to say it, but then bit her lip and looked to her feet when Godfrey insisted the missus repeat it into July’s face, louder, and then louder still.

  And the gig with the chestnut horse that Caroline requested for her carriage was waved away by Godfrey, who decided that the mule and cart would do better and called Byron to bring that contraption around instead. When ordering the missus to lie herself down in the back of the cart, the missus had asked Godfrey, ‘Is this necessary?’ He did not reply, but the vicious eye he turned upon her, gagged her as sure as if he had clamped his hand across her mouth.

  ‘Bring a blanket to cover the missus,’ Godfrey requested of July. No, not the one from her closet, but the old one which was used in the kitchen and . . . well, get the dog off it then. The missus and her belongings were lying, hid under the stinking cloth in the cart when, in a muffled squeak of sneezing and snivelling, Caroline complained of extreme discomfort to Godfrey. But mounting the cart with a youthful bound, he merely bellowed on the whining white woman to hush up and remain as still and silent as death.