Читать книгу Morning at Jalna - Mazo de la Roche - Страница 12

VIII

Up the River

It was a flat-bottomed boat, old and inclined to leak, yet Annabelle, sitting in the stern, her coffee-coloured hand with its pink palm trailing in the water, found it a wonderful experience to be gliding gently up the river with Titus Sharrow at the oars. The rowlocks were rusty and made a rasping noise as the oars moved in them, which accentuated rather than broke the misty silence. To Annabelle, Tite was a mysterious, almost supernatural being. His Indian forebears, he had told her, were masters of this vast country till the French had come and conquered them. Still, he had the blood of the conquering race also. He was free as air, while she was a slave and all her people had been slaves, brought by force out of Africa.

Never had she minded being a slave. She had been happy in her security. She had yearned towards the day when the Sinclairs would return to the South, and she and Cindy and Jerry with them. She pictured the plantation as it had been in the past, for she could not picture its devastation. She knew that Jerry wanted to return to the old life also, to marry her when that time came. But these placid imaginings of the future had been shattered by her growing love for Tite.

Cindy had warned her, “You be careful of yo’self, Belle. Ah don’ trust dat Injun. He’s got a wicked look in his eye and a no-good look in his smile. His lips is too thin. It seems like he could bite better than he could kiss.”

Cindy had never seen the sweet bend of his lips as he rested on the oars and gazed into Annabelle’s pretty face, noted the curves of her seductive body. But Belle’s mind was on things spiritual.

“Does yo’ love de Lawd, Tite?” she asked.

“I do indeed,” he said, “but not so well as I love you.”

That was a shocking remark and she knew that she should be deeply shocked. Yet she was not shocked. On the contrary, a thrill of delight sent a tremor through her nerves. She could not keep back her happy laughter.

“Yo’ surely is a wicked boy, Tite,” she said.

“You must teach me to be good, Belle.”

She had a vision of the two of them, as man and wife, in a cottage, perhaps on the bank of this same little river. She would teach him to be good and he would teach her to love, but never, never to forget her Lord.

They came upon a little clearing where surely someone had intended to build a house. There were even cut logs lying there but they were half hidden by brambles. The pair in the boat were astonished to see two men seated on one of the logs studying what looked like a map, spread out on their knees.

“I’ve seen those men before,” said Tite. “They were asking questions in the village.”

“Where do dey want to go, Tite?”

“I don’t know but I guess they’re friends of your Mister Sinclair.”

“Dey certainly don’ look like Massa’s friends.”

“You haven’t got no massa now, Belle. You’re a free woman.”

“Not a nigger neither,” she amended.

“You’re as white — or whiter — than me, Belle.” He drew in the oars, leant forward and laid his hand on her knee. “Put yours beside it,” he said, “and see.”

The touch of his hand went through her like fire. She laid her hand yearningly beside his.

“Hi, you in the boat,” called out one of the men on the bank.

Tite turned towards him with dignity.

“Were you speaking to me, mister?”

“I was.” The man got up from the log and came to the river bank. He said, “Can you tell me if there’s a man named Sinclair living hereabouts?”

“He was visiting friends here,” said Tite. “He may be gone, for all I know.”

“He’s a slave owner” — the man spoke with scorn. “He brought some slaves with him. Do you young folks happen to be two of them?”

“We might be,” said Tite.

“Waal, you’re free now. Do you know that?”

“Thanks for telling us,” said Tite.

Annabelle was shaking with silent laughter. “What’s the joke?” asked the man.

“This young fellah ain’t a slave,” she said. “He’s an Injun.”

The man grinned. “I ain’t never seen an Injun and a mulatto sparkin’ before.”

“You’ve a lot to learn,” said Tite.

Annabelle spoke boldly, “Ah guess you’re a Yankee,” she said.

“I certainly am,” said the man, “and so’s my friend here. We’re refugees from the North. We don’t want to fight. We don’t want to be drafted into the army. There’s lots like us comin’ into Canada. We thought Mr. Sinclair might help us to find work.”

“Then you’re not agin the South?” Annabelle looked searchingly into the man’s face.

“Do I want to fight my brothers?” he demanded. “No, I’m all for peace and prosperity.”

The other man now came forward. “Can you tell us,” he asked, “where Mr. Sinclair lives? We don’t want to pester him but just to ask his advice.”

“He’s stayin’ at a place called Jalna.” Annabelle spoke with pride. “It’s the finest place hereabout but not as fine as our plantations.”

“Which direction does it lie in?” asked the man, as though unconcernedly.

She told him and the two men left, with a gruff thank you.

“You should not have told them, Belle,” said Tite. “I don’t like the looks of them.”

“But they’re not fighters,” she cried. “Jus’ poor refugees from the var.”

“They look like murderers,” said Tite.

He brought the boat to the shore, tied it to a fallen tree and scrambled out. “I must see where they go,” he said. “You wait here, Belle.”

“Be careful,” she called after him; a rich proprietary feeling for him thrilled her being, causing her to watch his lithe figure with the benign concern of a dark angel, as he disappeared into the bush. Waterfowl, knowing little of fear, swam close to her. A blue heron stole colour from the sky as he flashed overhead. She could see his legs tucked under him, as though he never would consent to use them again but would fly on and on to the end of the world. Oh, that she and Tite could live all their lives on this river bank, loving each other, serving the Lord! A tiny house, of only one room, built of logs, would be enough. The thought of the coming winter, the snowdrifts, no longer frightened her. She would feel safe, with Tite always at her side. He had not yet spoken of marriage but he would. She was sure he would. She did not look ahead to the time when he would pass his final examinations, become a lawyer. She could not believe in such a possibility. It was quite beyond her. Always she pictured him as the agile half-breed, with French blood in his veins. No Negro could be so clever, so ready-tongued.

Now he came loping back to her.

“They’re gone,” he said, “but not in the direction of Jalna. By jingo, I believe they’re Yankee spies.”

“Ah’d be afraid if you wasn’t here,” said Annabelle.

“What about God? Won’t he look after you?”

“He’s got dis war on his hands. He won’t have time for a poor girl like me.”

Tite gave her a tender look. “Don’t worry, Annabelle. I’ll look after you.” He scrambled into the boat.

“For how long?” she asked yearningly.

“For as long as you want me.”

She drew a deep breath of joy. “Ah loves you, Tite,” she said, and again trailed her hand blissfully in the river as the boat moved gently up stream.

The bank was blue with gentians and Michaelmas daisies. Goldenrod grew so tall that it was a secret place. Annabelle needed no persuasion to go with Tite into that flowery fastness. They sank to the grass and he put a coaxing arm about her waist. She laid her head on his shoulder, proud indeed that her hair was not woolly. Her languorous eyes were raised to his rounded brown neck.

“Don’t be afraid,” he whispered. His sinewy hand pressed her ribs.

A child’s voice broke in on them. “I see you!” called out Ernest. He and the two elder children came crashing through the undergrowth.

“Having a picnic?” demanded Nicholas.

“Not yet,” said Tite.

Nicholas looked accusingly at Annabelle. “You’re needed at home,” he said. “Cindy has just had a baby.”

Annabelle sprang to her feet. “And me not thar to help!” she cried. “Oh, my goodness! Show me the path, chillen, and Ah’ll run all the way. Was thar a doctor? Was thar a midwife?”

“There was only my mother,” said Nicholas. “Our servants were too badly frightened.” His handsome boy’s face was flushed by excitement.

“Was you sent to fetch me?”

“No, I was told to take Ernest out of the way. He doesn’t understand such things.”

“Understand — my eye,” said Ernest. He was so excited that he walked in a circle.

“Do you know the shortcut to Jalna?” Tite asked of Nicholas.

“I do. Come along, Annabelle. Let’s see how fast you can run.” He led the way, the mulatto running lightly after him.

“This baby,” called Tite, “is born into a free country. What colour is it?”

“Black as the ace of spades,” said Nicholas.

“I shall follow with Ernest,” said Augusta. Her pale face was even paler than usual, though she had been running. She took Ernest firmly by the hand. The moist earth was soft beneath their feet. Slender larch trees and leafy undergrowth pressed close on the path, across which a mottled snake glided, pausing just long enough to spit out its yellow venom at them.

“If Nicholas were here,” said Ernest, “he would kill it.”

“We are supposed,” said Augusta, “to love all God’s creatures.”

“Gussie, do you love Cindy’s baby?”

“I daresay I shall.”

“How did Nicholas know it was black?”

“Perhaps Mamma told him.”

“Tell me, Gussie, how does a baby get born? Does it take a long while or does it come fast — whoosh, like that?” He made a violent gesture with his right arm.

Augusta held firmly to his left hand. She said, “You should try to keep your mind off such things till you are older.”

“As old as you?”

“Much older. You must make the effort.”

“I try to be brave,” said Ernest, looking fearfully into the moist August undergrowth.

“You may not succeed in being brave but there is nothing to prevent your being good.”

“Are we rewarded if we’re good?”

“It is promised to us.”

“Is Cindy being good or bad?”

“I do not know.”

“Then you don’t know if the baby is a reward or a punishment?”

“How can I tell what sort of life she has led?” They had now reached the open parkland that lay about Jalna. Augusta freed Ernest’s hand and he darted ahead. Annabelle was nowhere in sight, but Nicholas and Lucius Madigan came to meet them.

The tutor said, “I suppose you have heard of the new arrival?”

“How black is the ace of spades?” asked Ernest.

“I am colour blind,” said Madigan.

“Is that why you wear that bright green cravat?” asked Ernest.

Madigan fingered the cravat as though lovingly. “I wear this,” he said, “in memory of dear old Ireland. Thank God, she’s only a memory.”

“Mr. Madigan,” said Ernest, “can you tell me how long it takes to be born?”

Augusta fled.

“My parents,” said Madigan, “had been married ten years when I came on the scene. So you may say it took me ten years to be born. But things move faster nowadays.”