Читать книгу Cane Warriors - Alex Wheatle - Страница 7

3

PAPA

We finished our hard labor more than thirteen hours later. Every muscle in my back screamed. I couldn’t feel my arms and I believed my kneecaps were about to drop off. The sun had cooked my headtop and somebody could have made a hot drink with my sweat.

Keverton and I made our way to Miss Gloria’s serving station. She dipped her wooden spoon into a barrel of warm water and served us two cups. We drank underneath a tree as the sun turned amber.

“Me nuh know if me cyan mek it back to me hut,” Keverton said. “Maybe dis Jesus who Misser Master talk about cyan give me ah new body when me wake up inna de morning.”

“Me nuh want ah new body,” I replied. “Me want ah new life.”

“Miss Pam used to mek ah bush tea to bring life back to tired leg,” Keverton said.

“Yes,” I nodded. “Me t’ink me mama learn from Miss Pam which leaf she have to pluck.”

Keverton sipped his water and switched a hard gaze on me. “How many times do me have to tell you, Moa? Be careful how you pass on knowledge. Misser Donaldson nuh like dat, and him have plenty spy. Nuh let you mout’ run away from you. Keep it low. You nuh know who’s listening.”

Misser Donaldson was nowhere to be seen so I wondered why Keverton was so cautious. Maybe it was because during his seasoning two years gone, he had suffered more lashes than anybody. His back was crisscrossed with thick pinky-red scars under the recent blood. He always slept on his stomach.

“Me going to see Papa,” I announced.

“Do you have to?” asked Keverton.

“Yes, me have to.”

“Nuh keep him from him work,” Keverton warned. “And nuh stay too long inna de millhouse or otherwise dem will mek sure you do ah shift there tonight.”

* * *

Hamaya, determination printed on her forehead, struggled up the hill with her handcart full of cane. It made a rattling sound as she went on her way. The ruts in the dirt path were deep, and the loose wheels wobbled. I decided to help her—she was only eleven years old. It was just a few weeks ago that Misser Master gave her a dress and an apron to wear. Her shoes were too big for her. She had been blessed with generous lips and her keen eyes never missed a bird in the sky. She grinned at me before checking ahead for any overseers. There wasn’t any in sight. Apart from Miss Gloria, only pickney had smiles on the plantation. I wondered for how long Hamaya would keep hers.

Sometimes, just before the sun took its sleep, the white men returned to their huts to eat, drink, and, after taking their pick, be with our young black women. I prayed to the Akan gods that Hamaya wouldn’t suffer that fate.

“Moa,” she said, “you too good to me, but nuh let Misser Berris sight you wid me. He will find plenty extra work for you to do.”

“Nuh worry youself, Hamaya. Let me help you up de hill.”

We reached the top of the rise and I took a moment to gaze at the green mountains in the east. They promised freedom and adventure. I could almost hear them calling me.

Hamaya watched me. “You always looking ’pon de green mountains,” she said. “Maybe one day you cyan tek me to de other side.”

I laughed. “Maybe when you grow to you size.”

Hamaya pulled out her defiant face. “Me grow to me size already and me foot strong.”

“Yes,” I agreed, “me notice.”

“And Misser Berris and some of de other slavemaster notice too.” Her head dropped. She stared at the ground. “Dem will soon come for me, Moa,” she said. “Sometime me hear de fussing and fighting and cussing from de white mon hut. When de women come back, dem nuh know which way to look. Nobody say ah damn word till de morning come. Me nuh want dat, Moa.”

Hamaya lifted her head. Her expression was sad but strong. Her gaze went right through me. I knew she was pleading with me to do something. Anything.

I couldn’t meet her eyes. I wished she could have stayed five or six forever, with a broad grin blessing her cheeks as she ran through the plantation.

I had to look away.

I wondered in what direction lay the wide blue waters. A little farther up the path was the big house. Field slaves like me were forbidden to plant one toe near there. My mama cooked in the big kitchen behind the mansion. She had to rise two hours before the sun woke to prepare the fires in the oven. She had to serve Master’s wife and her children knowing that one dropped spoon, a word out of place, or a long stare could mean a lashing. She didn’t take her rest until the last dinner plate was scrubbed clean. I couldn’t remember her ever preparing a meal for me. The last I saw of her was three full moons ago.

We approached the entrance of the mill and tipped our load near the piles of cane that were stacked outside. The bundles were taller than two of me. Little Johnny, eight years old, ran over with a small stepladder, picked up our cane, and placed it on top of the stack. He secured it with twine. Hamaya started back down the hill. I wondered how many times she made that trip every day. She paused for a short moment and glanced at the green hills again. Dem will soon come for me, Moa. Her words wouldn’t let me go. At least my terror was only during the day. Maybe she dreaming de same dream dat fill up me head ah nighttime.

I saw my papa and stood watching him feed the cane into the rollers. I hardly saw him do anything else. It made an ugly sound. He was a thumb taller than me but he seemed small. I used to have dreams of him leading me up into the hills. But not anymore.

Another man, Mooker, led a donkey that was tied to a rope attached to the wide wooden wheels. The cane juice was caught in a giant bowl built into the ground.

I approached my father. “Papa.”

He didn’t turn round. He continued pushing the cane into the rollers with his one hand. Since he lost his left arm he wouldn’t turn to look at anyone while he was working. “Moa? Is what you doing here?”

“Long time me nuh see you,” I said.

“De time will be longer if Misser Berris find you foolish self here.”

Mooker stole a quick glance at me before looking away. He was the one who hacked my father’s arm off with an ax when it got caught in the rollers. This act saved Papa’s life. The wooden machinery was still stained red. I couldn’t imagine the agony Papa suffered. The donkey plodded on, its nose close to the ground. Barefoot, Mooker didn’t care when he trod in the animal’s shit.

“Me did want to see you,” I said. “Louis come visit me last night.”

Papa glanced at me over his shoulder. I could tell he didn’t like my news. “Louis come to see you last night?”

“Yeah, mon,” I replied.

“Did he talk him dangerous talk?”

I nodded.

Papa dropped his tone to a whisper. “Me know dem talking about ah bruk-out, but listen to me good, Moa. You cyan’t go wid dem.”

“Papa, me have to go wid dem. Louis expect me to go.”

“Better if you stay here and live.” Papa glanced at me once more. “Dem will cramp you. And dem will kill you slow by starving you inna cage. Dem will bring liccle pickney to see you. De same ting happen to me brudder. When him dead, he was not’ing more than de branches of ah maaga tree.”

“Dem cyan’t starve we if we kill dem first,” I replied.

Papa shook his head before concentrating on feeding the rollers again. “You your mama’s and me first-born. De toilet sickness tek Namoro two harvesttime ago. Bokara never even get to see five full moons.”

“Me know dat, Papa, you nuh have to remind me.”

“Then you cyan’t go wid dem, Moa. Dem will ask me to dig you pit. And dat will tek plenty time wid me one hand. And dem will mek ever’body see it up by de long post by de big house. Dem love to give de good people of de plantation ah warning.”

“Me mek up me mind, Papa,” I said. “Me nuh want to let Louis and Keverton down. No, mon. Better me dead fighting than dead from working for de white mon. So many of we are tired of meking dem belly fat. Misser Donaldson back-ripper might send me to de pit tomorrow anyway.”

Papa shook his head again. “Then me have lost another son. You t’ink me want to see all me bwoy-chile dead-off before me? No, Moa!”

“Me might live,” I said. “And reach de other side of de green mountains.”

“You better not stand up here for too long,” Papa said. “Misser Berris will soon come and him love him back-ripper more than him love to drink de mad cane water.”

“You could come wid we. You want to dead here so? By your rolling machine?”

He dropped his gaze and stared at the ground. “Me will keep me good foot here,” he said. “If me get de chance, me will talk to Louis about his dangerous talk. He will get de sons of good people like meself killed for true.”

I searched his eyes for a short while before I left. Papa had fed those rollers since before I was born. Maybe he would die there.

At the bottom of the hill I spotted Misser Berris. His garments couldn’t contain his belly and he sweated under his hat. His cheeks were sun-kissed red. For a short moment I imagined him coming for Hamaya next time the moon was full fat. A bubbling hatred burned within me.

Papa only had three days of recovery when he lost his arm. Misser Berris refused to grant him an easier job like planting vegetables near the big house or caring for animals. I kept to the edge of the dirt track and hoped he wouldn’t notice me.

“Guinea bird,” he called me. His back-ripper was tied to his trouser belt. He hooked his thumb around it. “What are you doing in the millhouse?”

“Me . . . me was helping liccle Miss Hamaya, Misser Berris. She . . . she did drop her load. So me help her put de cane back inna de cart.”

Misser Berris gave me a long suspicious glare before striding up the hill. I breathed an easy breath and went on my way.

“Guinea bird!” Misser Berris called me again.

I turned around. Something plowed in my belly. I remembered what Louis advised: Bow you head ah liccle and nuh look de white mon in de eye. I recalled the lashing he gave to Pitmon only two weeks ago. Till there was hardly any skin left on Pitmon’s back. Misser Berris had to shake his back-ripper plenty times and dip it into warm water to get rid of Pitmon’s flesh. Then Keverton was ordered to dig his hole. A silent fury echoed around the plantation that night. Nobody slept. “Yes, Misser Berris?”

“Make sure you go to the hut and get your sleep,” he said. “We don’t want any tired guinea birds in the morning.”

“Yes, Misser Berris,” I replied. “Me going to catch some sleep now after me get ah liccle someting to eat.”

I stopped by Miss Gloria’s food station and she served me some chicken-back bones to gnaw on with cornmeal. I washed it down with water as the moon came out with its full face beginning to hide. By the time I arrived at my hut, eight men and two boys younger than me were already sleeping. I took my position on the floor and slumber claimed me quick. My dreams imagined the mysterious side of the green mountains and fat chickens.