Eden Burning (32 page)

“My flesh and blood will be taken care of. No need to worry,” Francis replied, as quietly.

There is nothing between them except the child in her belly, Tee thought. It was a sudden revelation. They had nothing! Quite possibly neither of them even knew it—and might never know it. That was the terrible thing: might never know it. If you were to ask Richard about his marriage, he would tell you it was good. He believed it was.

Too much, too much, she thought, feeling a great weariness. My son’s marriage ought to be no affair of mine, but it will be, nevertheless; I shall go home with the burden of this, too.

Marjorie was pressing a question. “Will you drive me to Covetown tomorrow morning as Lionel advises?”

“I will, although I still don’t believe there’ll be any danger.”

“When you’ve lived here as long as I have,” Lionel said, “you’ll know better. Good God, I remember when I was a child, there was an argument in a barbershop and a party of Negroes came in and cut the barber—he was a white man—cut him to pieces with his own razors. No one ever caught them, either. For all you know, they could be working for you here at Eleuthera.” Lionel laughed. “Seriously, though, there’s a lot of agitation out there, and don’t think the firebum went out with the end of slavery, because it didn’t. Why, they burned half the estates on St. Croix back in my grandfather’s time, and that’s not so long ago! Burned them up because they weren’t satisfied with their labor contracts. And things are more tense today than they were then, let me tell you.”

Richard put his coffee cup down. “We’re scaring the life out of these women. It’s especially unfair to Marjorie. She’s got enough to think about right now as it is.”

Lionel apologized. “Sorry. You’re absolutely right. So you’ll have lunch with me Friday, if all goes well? Tee, do you remember the way? You won’t get lost?”

“No, I won’t get lost, and yes, I remember the way. I remember it very well.”

As soon as he opened his eyes on Friday morning, Francis felt the unnatural stillness. Quietly, so as not to awaken Marjorie, he slid out of bed and pulled on his clothes. But she had heard him.

“Is anything the matter, Francis?”

“No. Go to sleep. You feel all right?” Her eyes, between heavy lids, had a bright sickly gloss.

“Dizzy, I think. I don’t know how I feel, really.”

Alarm jerked him more widely awake. “Stay there, then. I’ll be back in a minute. We’ll call Dr. Strand and drive you in to Covetown.”

He went downstairs and outside. By half past six the milk cows should have been let out to graze; differing from many owners, he kept his cattle in at night to protect them from the damp. By half past six, in picking time, the men should have been in the groves. And hastening, he strode along the river gorge, up the steep path down which the stems were to be carried to the roadside for pickup. Except for the whistlings and twitterings of the forest, there was no sign of life. Thick as candles on an altar, the bananas stood on the trees, ready for picking. On the other side of the island the Geest refrigerator ship, like a great resting seabird, waited for the crop.

The strike had come then, with his own people in it! Betraying what he had liked to think of as a mutual trust! They had let him down, after all. The whole crop to be lost, all those months of steady bloom and growth! Anger clashed in his middle with his worry over Marjorie and still another urgent fear: he needed money. He needed it quite desperately, he owed the bank, another half-dozen cottages for the full-time hands were only partially completed, he—

Osborne was running between the barns.

“So it’s begun,” Francis said. “With our people in it, too.”

“I’m afraid so. Don’t worry about the stock, though. I’ve got my sons milking and feeding. My wife’s seeing to the chickens. We’re slow, but we can do the necessary.”

“What about the crop?”

Osborne threw his hands up.

“What do you mean? Just forget about it? To hell with it?”

“What else can we do?”

Oh, Osborne could afford to be calm! It wasn’t his money. He’d get his salary and his house, regardless.

“Haven’t I treated my people decently?”

“Surely you have, but—”

“But what? When my foreman’s wife wants a new stove, I don’t question. She gets it. Merton’s baby has an ear infection. What do I do? I get in the car and drive him to the hospital myself. I don’t want thanks, I tell you, I only want—Listen, Osborne, I’ve got to talk to somebody. There has to be somebody who can be talked to. Where is everybody, anyway?”

“A lot of men have gone to a meeting in town. And there’s a crowd with picket signs outside the gates. You can’t see them from the house.”

“I’m going down there. I’m going to put it to them fairly and squarely. Biting the hand that’s fed them better than anybody else on this island’s ever done just makes no sense, no sense at all, and I intend to tell them so.”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Mr. Luther. They’ve made up their minds. You wouldn’t get anyplace. And some of them are union people from higher up. They don’t even know you, and they could get pretty mad. This is island-wide. No, don’t go down there, Mr. Luther.”

Francis stared at the other man. A cold fish, with his calm counsel, who, for all he could tell, might have known perfectly well what was going to happen this morning! At a time like this, one could suspect anybody. But he must keep his head and save whatever could be saved. Keep his head! With Marjorie’s condition, and—He turned abruptly.

“I’m going in to telephone. I’ll reach someone who can do
something. Damned if I’ll just sit here and let that crop rot on the trees.”

Patrick, he thought. Patrick’s the one. They hadn’t spoken for the past week or two. Francis’ head had been filled with Marjorie and with his parents’ visit, while Patrick had, through the newspaper, been involved with the strike, writing exhortations to both sides to negotiate, to be patient, and to keep their tempers.

Having called the doctor and been advised to bring his wife in before noon, he telephoned Patrick. Would Patrick possibly be able to rush out to Eleuthera right now? He hated to ask, but it was so important, and would he please come to the office next to Osborne’s house. Yes, surely Patrick would.

Francis swung in the swivel chair and drummed on the office desk. His nerves were singing like telegraph wires. He’d had a teacher once who was all gone on the subject of relationships, of how everything was hooked on to something else and nothing stood alone. He hadn’t comprehended it then, had been bored as hell by such dry abstractions, but now suddenly he saw what had been meant. Here was his child about to be born—pray God it would be well—and it was up to him to protect that child’s security; but then, the workers wanted their own security, too!

“‘They’ve much on their side, you know that,” Kate always said, and it was true; Kate saw things fairly; Kate—

He rubbed his hand over his eyes. Everything, everything circled round him: Kate and Marjorie and the baby, and money and justice, racing and colliding. Yes, the strikers had much on their side, their demands being neither impossible nor outrageous. If the planters had any sense, they’d accede and choose peace. In the end, they’d have to give in; couldn’t they see that?

And he said as much when Patrick came rushing in.

“I’m glad you see it that way, Francis.”

“Well, I do. Everyone must know I do. Then why are they punishing me, too?”

“It’s not punishment. It’s not personal. It’s just that once a thing like this starts, there’s a momentum. It took a long time to build. Now you can’t stop it.”

“That doesn’t answer me! Haven’t I been fair, been generous? I’ve plowed money back into improvements when I could have used it to pay off what I owe. I’ve a grocery store on the premises and put its profits into a welfare fund, I’ve—Why are they doing this to me?” He heard himself pleading.

Patrick spoke gently. “What can I tell you? It’s not fair, of course it isn’t. But they don’t make exceptions. That’s the size of it.”

“Won’t, you mean.”

“Even if some of them should want to break the strike for you, they couldn’t do it, you surely understand that. A union is a union. Orders come from the organization, from the top.”

“Well, then, let’s get to the top!”

Patrick shook his head. “Francis, it can’t be done.”

The patience in his manner irritated Francis. This was the stubborn patience with which one “handled” children, denying without explaining why. He struck the desktop with his fist.

“I have got to get this crop to the ship! It’s an outrage, a wanton waste for the entire island, those ships going back empty, with space for a thousand tons!”

Patrick sighed. “I know, I know.”

“I’ll pay what they’re demanding. Let the other planters do what they want, or say about me whatever they want. I don’t give a damn.”

“You’ve got courage and you’ve got principles. But you see, it’s not the money alone. It wouldn’t be, even if they could make an exception of you, which I tell you again, they can’t. They’ve got to stand together.”

“If it’s not the money alone, then what is it? What do they want?”

“I suppose,” Patrick said slowly, reflectively, “it’s wanting to direct one’s own life. That’s the feeling that’s been gaining strength here on these islands. These people have grown up. They’ve migrated overseas and sent back reports. They’ve seen how people live in other places and what they have. And now they’re sick of being directed from abroad by foreign companies—”

Francis interrupted. “I know all that. I’m not a foreign company. I’m here every day working where they can see me.

Patrick was silent. He looked tired.

“You just said I have principles. You admit I’ve been a good guy. Go out to my gate now and ask those men to come back and harvest my crop.”

“Francis, they wouldn’t listen to me! I’m not even a union man. I only write for a newspaper.”

“Then ask your father-in-law. They’d listen to Clarence Porter.”

“Clarence is old. He’s been out of things for years.”

“Don’t tell me he has no more influence!”

“If he has, he won’t use it to break a strike, I can tell you that. He’d have my head for even daring to suggest it.”

It was almost as though a game were being played, some board game, chess perhaps, in which Francis moved and Patrick blocked him and Francis moved again and Patrick blocked him. Once during childhood, when he had been losing at checkers, Francis had gone into a rage of frustration and thrown the board over. He felt that way now.

“Well,” he said, controlling himself, “well, maybe you have some other solution for me.” And he waited.

“I wish I had.”

“Then,” Francis said coldly, “it comes down to the fact that you really don’t care about helping me.”

“That’s not true! But you’re asking me to do the impossible. This will only be solved when the Planters Association signs a contract with the union, when contractors sign with
their unions—it’s spread all over, Francis. It’s a movement, don’t you see?”

Patrick’s chair creaked. Osborne’s porch door banged. The noises shuddered along Francis’ spine and in his teeth.

“Well? Well? What do you advise me to do then?”

For a moment Patrick was silent, examining his fingers. Then he said gravely, “I have no advice. Except to sit and wait.”

“And take my losses.”

“What else?”

Francis could have struck him.

“What else?” he mimicked. “You and Osborne, with your quiet resignation! Oh, you talk, you people who’ve got nothing to lose! Have you any idea what I’ve put into this place?” He twisted his cigarette into the ashtray. He shot up out of the chair. “Yes, just sit here, I must, while they shut my place down, this horde that depends on me for wages and wants to be the master of my life!”

Patrick smiled sadly. “They believe, you see, that people like you feel entitled to be the masters of their lives.”

The black arm of the wall clock moved forward with a jerk and click both visible and audible. Half past nine. Marjorie. He had to get her in to town before noon. Leave all this mess. Everything falling apart. No one helps. It’s all on me. Again the clock jerked and clicked.

Suddenly something happened. He struck his hands together. “Dlumination!” he cried. “I’ve got the answer! The Carib reservation! They’ll do it! I can get a gang for a few days’ work and pay them anything they want to pick this crop. It’ll be worth it.”

Patrick whistled softly. “Blackleg labor?”

“You can call it whatever you like.”

Apart from the Tightness or wrongness, you ought to consider the dangers. How will they get the crop past your gates? The roads will be blocked—they’ll never reach the dock.”

“We’ll chance it.”

“There’ll be a battle.”

“If it’s battling they want, let them have it.”

Patrick had risen. The two men, of equal height, stood as if in confrontation.

“Francis, you’re making a mistake. I know you feel you’re being treated unfairly, not appreciated, and that may be true, but as they say in the labor movement, you can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs.”