Читать книгу Cane Warriors - Alex Wheatle - Страница 10

6

LOOSE TALK

I made my way back to my place of rest undetected. I heard a fierce argument coming from behind Keverton’s hut. I recognized Papa’s voice and ran down the hill. About fifty steps away from the last field-slave cabin, Keverton, Louis, and Papa cursed each other. Their hand-pointing and gestures were fiery. A horrible feeling whipcracked through me. They spotted my approach and stilled their tongues as if nothing had happened. None of them wanted to look at me.

“Even de lizard ’pon Misser Master veranda ah hear you cuss-cussing,” I said. “Stop you noise! You want to wake up de whole plantation?”

Louis gave Papa a blazing eye-pass. Keverton shook his head.

Papa returned Louis’s glare with a fierce look of his own. “You cyan’t tek him wid you,” he said to Louis. “Me won’t let you take him wid you!”

“Moa already mek up him mind,” Louis argued.

“Moa cyan talk for himself,” I said. “And me give me good word, me hand, and me foot to Tacky cause. It nuh just Tacky cause no more. It’s de whole ah we. From Mama, Hamaya, and ever’body else. Dem me ah fight for.”

“Him too young,” Papa protested as he stamped a foot. “Just ah few moons ago, Moa was picking out de weeds inna cane field. Just de other skinny moon, Misser Donaldson season him. Him back only just heal. He’s him mama last bwoy-chile—”

“Papa,” I cut in, “yes, me cyan’t lie. Me t’ought me was going to dead when me get season and it still pain me when me roll ’pon me back. Sometime when me sleeping me see Misser Donaldson back-ripper talking to me. But Mama give me her blessing. Me going wid dem for true. Everyting set up. Me have ah job to do.”

Papa switched his gaze from Louis to Keverton. His jaw muscles twitched. I felt the tension in my throat. Papa seemed to know what “job” meant. “You cyan’t ask him to do dat,” he objected. “Moa will get kill-off before Tacky bruk-out even start.”

“Me have to do me job, Papa,” I said. “Me cyan’t back out. No, mon. If me back out, in plenty years to come, we blood won’t remember me.”

“Then you leave me wid no choice,” Papa said. “Me will tell Misser Master meself. Me cyan’t just stand up and do not’ing when me first-born walking to him foolish deat’. It’s better dat Tacky, Louis, or anyone else dead before you.”

It happened so quick. Louis rushed up to Papa, swung a fist, and sent him flying to the dirt. Papa pushed himself up with his one arm and kicked out at Louis. Louis levered a punch from way behind his back. It lifted Papa off the ground. I squinted as he landed with a solid thud. Invisible lashes split my heart every time they thumped each other. I thought my head was going to burst like a coconut being crushed by a wooden mallet.

“Me will kill you for dat!” raged Papa.

“Stop it, mon!” I yelled. “Stop it!”

Louis leaped on top of Papa and strangled him with his big hands and thick forearms. Papa croaked and gasped for breath. I saw the pain in his eyes. He glared at me. I found it hard to meet his gaze. Louis squeezed harder. I stepped forward a pace. Then another. I clenched my hands into fists.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I ran to try to intervene but Keverton stepped in front of me. He raised his hands and challenged me. He pushed out his chin and narrowed his eyes. How cyan me fight Keverton? He’s my brudder. My teacher.

“If we let him go,” Keverton said, “you papa’s tongue could send ah whole heap ah we brudders to de pit. Moa, me beg you. Remember Pitmon.”

I relaxed my fingers.

Louis increased the pressure on Papa’s neck. Papa coughed and spluttered again. His eyes bulged like a sick donkey’s. His one arm flailed up and down. He tried to pull Louis off of him but Louis was too powerful. Pitmon grew big in my mind yet I had to do something . . .

I evaded Keverton and ran five paces toward Papa.

A voice cut through the night from farther down the hill: “Animals!”

It was Misser Donaldson. He was accompanied by Misser Bolton. The grinding sensation returned to my stomach. Louis jumped off Papa and stood very still to attention. Keverton did the same and I didn’t twitch one little toe. Papa slowly climbed to his feet. He dusted himself off and stared at the ground.

Approaching Louis, Misser Donaldson measured his steps around him with his hands behind his back. “You again,” he said. “What’s this about?”

Louis didn’t reply. Papa kept quiet.

“What’s this about?” Misser Donaldson repeated, this time louder. He reached for his back-ripper. On this night it seemed longer and coarser.

I tried to keep still but my heart boomed so hard it almost made me keel over.

“Just . . . just ah liccle argument about . . . about food,” Louis managed.

Misser Donaldson lashed Louis across his face. The whipcrack sent birds flapping above. Eyes peered out of hut windows. Whatever lurked in the bush sprang away. Louis’s face swelled up immediately, leaving an ugly red welt from the corner of his top lip to the edge of his left eye. Blood ran over his strong chin. The lash must’ve notched his cheekbone but Louis hid his pain well.

“Too many times I find you out at night,” Misser Donaldson warned. “If you harm or stop one of our slaves from working, I’ll get you to dig your own grave before I kill you myself. Umbassa may only have one arm but he’s still worth ten pounds to his master.”

Louis fixed his gaze to his feet. Blood dripped onto his footwear. “Yes, Misser Donaldson. It won’t happen again, Misser Donaldson. Me sorry, sah.”

Papa remained silent.

“All of you should be sleeping,” Misser Donaldson said. “You always complaining how tired you are, so why aren’t you sleeping?”

“Me . . . me was tending to Keverton arm,” Louis lied. “Him was complaining about it today and he did want his arm to feel good by de morning so him cyan work good.”

“Dat is true, Misser Donaldson,” Keverton said. “Me arm and shoulder pain me since de last fat moon.”

Misser Donaldson thought about it. I wondered if he’d fall for the old Jamaican slave trick—play fool and subservient to con the so-called wise. Misser Donaldson twirled his back-ripper and circled Louis once more. He then turned to Papa. “And what about you?”

I noticed Louis’s eyes following Papa’s every movement.

“Me . . . wanted to see me son, Misser Donaldson,” Papa said. “It’s . . . it’s just de one son me have. So me was looking for him. Me wanted to teach him someting. Sometime him cut de cane too high. Me notice dat from me work at de millhouse. Misser Berris is always telling me dat we cyan’t waste any of de good cane.”

Misser Donaldson and Misser Bolton swapped doubtful glances.

“Go and get your sleep,” Misser Bolton ordered. “You know the rules: three field slaves are forbidden to be abroad after sundown. Next time . . . you know what to expect.”

I knew what to expect—a flogging while bound to the tall post outside the big house. Most boy-child my age didn’t survive it. Pitmon didn’t live after it. Misser Master ordered everybody to see Pitmon’s dead body. They hung it up from a tree. He swayed gently in the breeze. They lashed him across the face so many times that he had no lips and just half a nose. His back didn’t look like a back anymore—the color was scraped off. That same night Miss Pam sang an Akan song to try to soothe our hearts. Even Papa let go some of his eye-water. Nuh go down Pitmon road, Papa told me. Me want you to live.

“Yes, Misser Bolton,” Keverton nodded. “It will never happen again.”

Papa started up the hill. He didn’t look back. His shelter was behind the millhouse. I made for my own hut, and when I found my place on the floor, I wondered if he really would reveal our bruk-out plans to Misser Master. No, I thought, Papa wouldn’t betray we like dat. Would he?