The Long Song (12 page)

As July crawled out from around and under the sideboard she heard her missus sighing. July, moving to stand at her side said, ‘No be feared, missus, no be feared. Me here, missus.’

But her missus began quietly to weep. Then, through a halting pause, as she wiped her snivelling nose upon the back of her hand—which still gripped the pistol—she said, ‘Marguerite, that is a bed sheet on the table, not the Irish linen. My God, Elizabeth Wyndham will soon testify to everyone that a soiled bed sheet was on my table through this whole beastly dinner.’

 

 

 

 

S
OMETIMES MY SON DOES confuse me with all his education and learning until I do not know if I be in the right or in the wrong.

‘But this is the time of the Baptist War, Mama,’ he tell me. ‘The night of Caroline Mortimer’s unfinished dinner in your story is the time of the Christmas rebellion, when all the trouble began.’ He then commenced to blast me with fierce commands.

I should tell, he said, whether the firing of plantations started in Salt Spring when the negro driver refused to flog his own wife. Or, whether it began at Kensington Pen, up near Maroon Town. I must write all I know of Sam Sharpe, the leader of this rebellion—of his character and looks. I should make it clear how every negro believed themselves to have been freed by the King of England; how they had promised to do no more work until that freedom was felt; and how the negroes swore to wrest their freedom from the planters’ thieving grasp if it was not given willingly. And I must be sure to add how the noise of the shells and horns being blown at Old Montpelier and Shettlewood Pen did manage to frighten off the militia.

Plenty, plenty commands did trip lightly from my son’s mouth—too many to lavish my black ink upon here—until I told him, ‘Hush up,’ for my head did ache with his requirements.

Now, reader, it is not that your storyteller is indolent and idles about when there is work that must be done. No. The reason I have little to advise upon these truths is within the nature of those olden times; for news did not travel as it does today. Most was carried upon the breath of ragged little boys who once having run far with the tale then struggled to recall it while you fed them some yam. Or it was passed upon the gossips-breeze—the chat-chat that blew from ear to ear across the island.

Yet in these more modern times, I may write a letter at my table and someone too-far-to-run-to will read its contents within the week. And, imagine this, an instrument called a telephone can carry talk to ears within some other household in the time it takes to whisper it from your own lips. My son says that this telephone can even allow you to chat with someone in another district—that you may be in Falmouth, yet your talk may be raising the eyebrows of someone in Kingston. But this is obviously fanciful, and no calling for Lillian to tell me that it is indeed so does make it true. But, if there were such an invention at the time of this Baptist War (as my son does name it), then I am sure I would have known what was going on everywhere at one time. But there was not.

So, should you desire a fuller account of what happened during this time, then perhaps you could peruse the pamphlet that my son of late brought to me. It is written by a Baptist minister named George Dovaston with the title,
Facts and documents connected with the Great Slave Rebellion of Jamaica (1832)
.

Although nothing that appears within this minister’s pages was witnessed by my eye, and what my eye did see at the time does not appear in this man’s report, my son assures me that this account is very good. Try that if you so desire. Do not, however, read the pamphlet written by the planter John Hoskin. For the man is a fool who does blame only the sons of Ham and men of God for what occurred. None of my readers should look upon that time through his view. I know this sort of man’s character, and his eyes would clearly be shut to all but his own consequence.
Conflict and change. A view from the great house of slaves, slavery and the British Empire
is the pamphlet you must run from. If you do read it and find your head nodding in agreement at this man’s bluster, then away with you—for I no longer wish you as my reader.

What I do know is that when those fires raged like beacons from plantation and pen; when regiments marched and militias mustered; when slaves took oaths upon the Holy Bible to fight against white people with machete, stick and gun; when the bullets sparked like deadly fireflies; and bare black feet ran nimble through grass, wood and field—at Amity, the loudest thing your storyteller could hear was Miss Hannah gnawing upon the missus’s discarded ham bone.

 

 

 

 

‘
N
O BIG BLACK NIGGER gonna get past me, missus,’ July said, holding up her fists so her missus might see those two fearful weapons—that were, alas, no bigger than ripe plums.

Three days, Caroline Mortimer had been alone in the great house, with only her company of house servants. At first, the missus had been more concerned with raving at Godfrey over the dirty bed sheet upon the dining table, and wagging her finger upon July to note that if she had been stealing, as the massa from Windsor Hall had accused her, then she was lucky to have escaped punishment by his hand, than considering her uneasy plight.

But as the sweaty, humid hours lumbered past her and no white face appeared to give her a civilised view upon the situation; as the horizon to the west became lit with a faint dash of quivering pink light; as the horn of a conch blew unwonted first from far, then from near; as dogs howled over there, over here; as the moon began once more to light her familiar view with a peculiar gloom and still no word from her brother, Caroline at last realised that perhaps she should fret.

‘Is there any word yet?’ she asked July.

‘No be frettin’, missus,’ July replied, ‘for you is alone with no white people near to calm you—no massa, no friend, no bakkra—for no nigger gon’ come near, missus, when me two fists is raised so.’ Caroline’s face now carried such fright within its features that July was reminded of a pig just before a keen blade slit its throat; for her blue eyes protruded with the same soon-meet-thy-maker dread. But her missus had not yet squealed with an equal passion.

So, suddenly cupping her hand to her ear, July said in a loud whisper, ‘But listen, missus, listen. Me can hear a horse riding close.’ July then ran to the window and pressed her face and hands upon the panes of glass. ‘Me can’t see who comes, missus. But no fret,’ she shouted. ‘No fret for, look see, me two fists is raised. Them no take you from me, missus.’

‘Is it my brother?’ the missus asked.

As July peered out into the night light, the hazy form of the horse and rider came into her view. After disappearing behind the solid bricks of the counting house, the tiny form reappeared nearer the kitchen and the rider of the horse was caught in a flash of moonlight—for he was dressed all in white.

Nimrod. July knew the rider could only be Nimrod. And oh, what breath of joy she found. Nimrod had come from town!

Like a shadow show upon a wall, July watched Byron’s black shape run to hold Nimrod’s horse as he, bright as a star in this play, dismounted, patting Byron’s head and shooing away Lady the dog as she jumped up upon him. Godfrey’s lanky outline then drifted in—his hand outstretched. Nimrod patted Godfrey upon the back and leaned in to whisper in his ear, but then straightened when Molly arrived skipping around as frisky as the dog.

‘No, it be no white massa. It be a nigger,’ July taunted her missus. But Caroline Mortimer did not squeal with fright as was July’s intention, instead she ran to July and clung her arms about her waist. It was such a tight embrace that July was as choked for a good lung of air as her fearful missus.

‘Let me go,’ July said. The sodden silk of her missus’s dress, her pungent spicy scent, the hot moist flesh of her ample arms did all enfold July in a sweet, sticky softness. July made move to wriggle herself from under this squelching grasp, but her missus clung on tighter. And July did regret having made her fret so. For Molly was seeking to charm Nimrod while July was captured like a moth upon jam.

‘Missus, let me go so me can see who this nigger be,’ she said. But her missus just squeezed her tighter. ‘No fret, missus, for me will turn the lock in the door.’ Caroline let forth a slight whimper, to assent or protest, July could not tell.

‘Just till the nigger be gone, missus,’ she said softly. ‘Then me soon come back and set you free.’

Even within murky moonlight, July knew that Nimrod would be hungry to gaze upon her. It did not matter that she wore only her ragged grey workaday clothes that were renk with the cow she had milked for her missus’s warm cinnamon milk punch. Or that her hair, itching stiff with dirt, poked out of the ugly green kerchief upon her head through several holes within the shabby fabric. As she walked, swinging on her hips, towards Nimrod, she knew he would tilt his head to feign an ordinary greeting—like he might give Molly or Patience—but that his breath would rise to hold the message within his throat until he had to cough it out, ‘Ah, Miss July,’ cough, cough, ‘greetings,’ for he admired her so.

Now, Nimrod was not tall—no taller than July—for his legs were bowed as if waiting for the horse he had just dismounted to return and slip back under him. Yet still he walked proud, for Nimrod was a free man. Although once the groom at Amity, he had purchased his freedom many seasons ago, laying down two hundred pounds in coins and notes while the massa’s mouth gaped.

July thought Nimrod’s skin black as coke and his nose too flat and broad. But he was not a slave. He now commanded white people to look upon him within the eye. Although one of his eyes was apt to wander, which made knowing which eye to fix upon as he spoke a little confusing. But still, as a freeman he did hold that respect.

The hair upon his head was lush at the front but at the back there was a sovereign-sized hole in the covering that did glisten in sunlight. And the scar upon his lip that Tam Dewar had left him with after a punishment, looked like a disfigurement to July when he was still white man’s chattel. But now Nimrod was a man with his own name—not given, but chosen—that jagged mark made him look brave. Nimrod Freeman or Mr Freeman was the name that all white people had to address him by, or he would give them nothing of what they required. For, like the wind, the sun, or the flowing river, like a soaring man-of-war or a beetle under a stone, like a spider at a web or a crab scuttling sideways across a shore, Nimrod was free. And, ‘Miss July,’ cough, cough, ‘greetings,’ Nimrod did indeed say as July approached.

‘ ’Devening, Mr Freeman.’

‘Miss July, you know to call me Mr Nimrod,’ he said, standing from his seat, yet stooping his head toward July, as if there were some need for him to bend himself shorter to deliver those words. He did not wink on her, for all at Amity were there to see, but he did raise his eyebrows to July two times to imply some fellowship between them as he offered her to sit. He then cleared his throat with a further cough, cough as he sat to continue the tale he had been telling to all who were gathered; Godfrey and Hannah, sucking upon their pipes; Molly loudly devouring a red love apple; the washerwomen, Florence and Lucy, straining to hear from a little way off; Byron, of course, sitting almost still while inspecting a scab upon his knee; even Patience had come.