Читать книгу Cane Warriors - Alex Wheatle - Страница 5

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A WHISPER IN THE NIGHT

Frontier Plantation, St. Mary, Jamaica, 1760

Sleep was hard to catch on this humid night. I was listening to the chanting of tiny creatures in the fields when I felt a strong palm on my shoulder. I turned my head and opened my eyes. Louis stood over me. His top garment, the sleeves rolled up above his elbows, was stained with soil. His eyes had a red fire in them. Sweat dripped off his chin. Through the open window I saw a fat moon—only days ago full fat. Its pale light reflected off Louis’s forehead.

He bent down and whispered into my ear, “Moa, it’s been agreed.”

“What’s been agreed?” I asked.

Louis checked around the small room. Ten men slept around me. There was no space to stretch or roll over. Two of them snored. Like me, they had worked fourteen-hour shifts cutting the cane. The endless cane. Like me, their bodies were spent and roasted by a brutal sun. Harvesttime was upon us. There’d be long days and weeks ahead of us.

Louis’s thick fingers dug into my shoulder. I sensed the power in his forearms. I wanted to grow broad and strong like him. I hoped he could pass on his courage to me too. “We is going to bruk outta here ’pon what de white mon call Easter Sunday,” he said. “T’ree days’ time.”

“White mon Easter Sunday?” I repeated. Something colder than blood flowed through my veins.

“Yes, mon, dem Easter Sunday,” nodded Louis. “De men and women cyan’t tek it no more. Not after Miss Pam drop inna de field and lose her life. Ever’body leggo some long-long eye-water. Me sure you eyes sore too. You know dat she was wid chile? Not even we gods—Asase Ya, Nyame, or Abowie—coulda save her. Who gonna tell de liccle pickney Anancy stories now? Dem should know dat Anancy de son of Asase Ya and Nyame. Scallion Mon and me had to dig de hole and dem just fling her inside it. Dem would not allow us to bury her beside ah tree or de stream. Not one Akan song chant.”

I recalled the time when Miss Pam treated the blisters on my hands with some herbs she had boiled. Mama said she had learned tings from the Akan elders. She helped deliver my little sister Hopie, and looked after Papa’s wound when it became sore. We all loved her. Sadness shook my heart and rage filled my fists once again.

“She was good to ever’body,” I said. “Dem never let me say goodbye to her.”

Louis’s eyes burned into me. “Moa, you understand dat if we bruk outta here, somebody have to kill off Misser Master and him wife and all de overseer dem.”

My body begged for more rest but my heart punched rapid combinations. I felt the vibrations in my throat. “Do we really have to kill master wife too? Do we have to kill any of dem? We cyan’t just run off in de nighttime?”

Louis shook his head. “We have to kill dem, Moa. Otherwise dem will send more white people to hunt we down. You nuh hear from you mama about how master’s wife treat we people inna de big house?”

“Yes.” I nodded. “Mama always complaining. Somebody get lash just becah dem drop some food. Sometime Mama nuh finish work till de bird sing inna treetop.”

I had to take a moment. Louis, broad shoulders and thick leg-back, was one of the oldest men on the plantation. He was three years shy of forty. I was fourteen years old and my chances of counting my harvests to thirty-seven were slim like the weed leaf that children had to dig out from around the cane. Life was hard as a boy-child. But now that I had nearly come to my full size, my life was going to get tough like an old tree root.

“How?” I asked. “When?”

Louis glanced over his shoulder. The green things in the field continued their debate. The smell of crushed cane, boiled sugar, and smoke filled our nostrils. The mill never slept.

“As me just done tell you,” Louis replied, “t’ree days’ time—de white mon’s Easter Sunday. Misser Master will give some of de white overseer de day off so dem cyan celebrate dis ting call Easter. Dem will be laughing and walking strange after dem drink de mad cane water. We have to tek we chance.”

“Tacky going to lead we?” I wanted reassurance. “Me will feel ah whole heap better if he did. Him hand mighty and him have ah good head. Me mama say de gods walk wid him. She say him was born to back de evil against de wall.”

“Yes, mon,” Louis said. “Of course. Nuh forget, Miss Pam was Tacky’s sister. Misser Master nuh even know dat. Tacky has to play dis pretend game becah he has to gain de trust from Misser Master. Sometimes you have to play fool to get wise. And Tacky playing it good. Tacky still remember de land at de other end of de blue waters. Dreamland him call it. Him still remember some words and ways dat de white mon nuh know about. Him cyan say someting right in front of Misser Master dat is ah message to we.”

“Tacky have one fierce strong back,” I said. “Me glad he will lead we.”

“Moa, catch some sleep,” Louis instructed. “You going to need it. Me will come tomorrow and give you more news. Nuh chat to nobody of dis except me—not even you papa.”

Louis checked the men around me before he left for his own hut. I peered out the window and he became a shadow in the steamy Jamaican night.

I thought of my father and hoped I’d see him in the morning when he finished his shift at the mill. I tried to guess how many moments of rest I could claim before the sun walked in the sky again. My limbs became weary as I thought about the day’s work ahead. I closed my eyes as my head hit the dusty floor.

The snorers continued.