Читать книгу Cane Warriors - Alex Wheatle - Страница 6

2

CUTTING THE CANE

Miss Gloria wasn’t smiling today. She dipped her spoon into the big cornmeal pot and served breakfast to the men. “Me glad you still living,” she said to Toolmon, the gray-bearded man who repaired and sharpened billhooks and other instruments we used in the field. She usually said her greeting with a grin. Not today. Maybe she missed Miss Pam too. Louis and the other elders had always instructed us not to “leggo eye-water” in front of the white overseers. Nuh let de white mon see de pain you carry inside.

When it was my turn to be provided, Miss Gloria offered me a quick glance. Her eyes were sore but her cheeks were dry. Misser Donaldson, a white overseer, looked on from his cabin veranda behind the cookhouse. A wide hat topped his fair hair. It had a brown chicken feather sticking out of it. One side of his face was red with sunburn.

I sat down on the grass under the shade of a tree. I scraped every last drip of cornmeal into my mouth. It would be six hours before my next meal, usually a piece of salted pork and a scrap of bread at lunchtime. I glanced at the high green hills to the east and wondered what was on the other side. Maybe there was a land where there was no overseer or Misser Master. The Dreamland that Tacky talked about. Maybe there were green fields where mothers didn’t have to toil in the fields and brothers weren’t whipped if they caught long moments of rest in the late afternoon. One day, me will have to tek me good foot and see wid me own eye. Yes, Moa. Mek me promise meself dat before me good body return to de ground.

I looked around for Papa but couldn’t spot him. I guessed he must be eating at another breakfast station near the millhouse. Keverton sat beside me. He was two thumbs taller than me, one branch wider, and two years older. He only had three fingers on his left hand after an accident with a billhook. His watchful eyes darted between me and Misser Donaldson.

“Moa, how are you arms keeping?” Keverton asked.

“Me nuh even know,” I replied. “Sometimes, when me finish work it’s like me have no arms at all.”

Sometimes when the sun got tired for the day, it felt like the billhooks we carried were as heavy as a fat donkey. Sometimes when the sun climbed to the middle of the great sky, it felt like it was roasting every little hair on my head. I was surprised it didn’t turn yellow. Sometimes when Misser Donaldson used his back-ripper on me, it felt like he was cutting cane from my body.

Keverton spied a quick look at Misser Donaldson again and dropped his tone to a whisper. “Did Louis talk to you last night?” he asked.

I didn’t want to answer. Louis had warned me not to share any of Tacky’s plans to anybody. Not even Keverton.

“Me nuh know what you talking about, Keverton.”

“Moa, you cyan talk to me,” Keverton assured. “Louis come to me last night too. On de white mon’s Easter Sunday, we have ah big job to do.”

“Louis never told me about any job,” I said.

Keverton thought about something. “He didn’t? You sure? You cyan talk to me, Moa. Me know de plan.”

I turned to Keverton and gave him a long look. “You do?” I said. “Louis tell me not to leggo one word.”

Keverton nodded. “And you did good.”

“Him shoulda tell me dat you know about Tacky’s plan too.”

“Maybe he didn’t want you to fill up you head about it and talk about it wid me too much,” Keverton said. “Mek sure you nuh give Misser Donaldson any problem today or tomorrow.”

“Me nuh give Misser Donaldson any problem for ah long while,” I said. “Me cut plenty-plenty cane since harvest start.”

“Good,” said Keverton. “Keep it up. Me nuh want him to suspect ah damn ting.” He tipped the cornmeal into his mouth and stood up. “Come, mon. Let we start early today.”

We placed our bowls into a wooden box beside Miss Gloria’s serving station—later on she would take them down to the river to wash them. Her usual morning smile still hadn’t reached her lips. I guessed Miss Pam’s kind face was still behind her eyes. I felt the rise of eye-water but I managed to hold it back.

Keverton and I made our way to the cane field. We were the first to arrive. The sun had just peeped its crown over the eastern hills. There were no white puffs in the blue sky. We picked up our billhooks from a sack and started work.

We hacked the cane from about six inches above the ground and then chopped the leaves from the top. I gazed ahead and the pale stalks stretched out until they reached the horizon. My back already ached just above my behind and my palms were as hard as the dried mud. A few naked pickney had already started pulling and picking out the weeds. I remembered when I filled my long days with that chore. It seemed like play when I first began—until the overseers warned us we had to do the same thing every day, every week, until the moon turned skinny and got fat again.

“Dis is harder work than planting time,” Keverton said. “Me just cyan’t tek de smell of de cow and donkey shit Misser Master tell we to use to mek de cane grow.”

“Me cyan’t tek de bending down, standing up, and de bending down again,” I said. “It’s ah wonder me back nuh bruk yet.”

“It will bruk if we nuh mek we move,” replied Keverton.

I checked behind me and Misser Donaldson hadn’t yet arrived on his donkey to check us. “What’s dis job dat we have to do?”

“Louis will tell you tonight,” Keverton said. “Me sure of dat.”

“Why cyan’t you tell me?” I urged.

More men had arrived for work. None of them looked forward to their day. Women and young girls pulled handcarts. They stopped here and there to pick up the fallen cane. They dragged it up the dirt path to the mill where it would be crushed. A dark smoke snorted out of the boilerhouse.

“It’s not for me to tell you,” Keverton finally replied. “Louis or Tacky have to do dat.”

“Is it ah dangerous ting we have to do?”

I had a very good idea what my task was. I hoped Keverton said it was something different. He stopped cutting and stared into the field before he turned to me. He nodded. “Everyting is dangerous here, Moa. Even living till de next day. Even sleeping. Nuh ask me no more question. Just concentrate on you work while de sun walks de sky. Louis did ah warn me dat you will fling plenty question my way.”

“But me have to know what kinda job dem want me to do,” I said. “Me have to prepare me—”

A shooting pain spread from the top of my left shoulder down to my waist. I spun around and saw Misser Donaldson astride his donkey. I didn’t hear him approach. His hat shadowed his forehead and his right hand twirled his back-ripper. It was whispered that it was part bull’s tail, with hog bone and goat hide. I remembered what it had felt like when I had been “seasoned”—given my first lashes, no more than two moon cycles gone—and I had seen what it had recently done to Keverton as a punishment. It was one of the worse whippings we had seen. His back showed ridges of hard dried blood.

Misser Donaldson’s teeth were as dirty as the manure banking and his ginger beard had specks of gray in it. Hate rippled through me. His red neck was ripe for strangling. My fingers wanted to wreak revenge but I gripped the sides of my coarse pants instead.

“You can’t work so hard when you talk,” he said. “Work!”

He slapped his donkey on its neck with his back-ripper and moved on. In the distance, I spotted Misser Bolton, the other overseer on our section. He was already flogging somebody. Keverton turned away from me, gripped his billhook, and chopped the cane in front of him. He didn’t say another word until we stopped for our next meal.

Could we really and truly tek dem on?

I wanted to hear Tacky’s voice reassuring me. I needed to see him.