Strange Music (14 page)

Mister Sam's violently sick again. Waves crest over. Mister Sam's face rolls on pillow lace, skin sameway pale as porcelain jug I bring.

Doctor Demar says, walking in from landing, ‘Girl, clear your master's chamber.'

Gathering scrumpled bed shirts, trousers, I can't stand straight to suffer all this shock. I shake trouser pockets out. ‘Wantin laundry, Mister Doctor,' I say, and slip Mister Sam's loose coins into my hand as I scoop up a spotted neck-cloth.

I hardly notice other buckra men go while stacking nibs, quills in blue-black desk wood.

Mister Sam's chin's grown stubble. Sweat jewels him back. Him body – a powerful snake – squirms with sudden strength, tightly wrapped in swirling white linen. Letters on Mister Sam's desk catch my eye. Musty memories move, unfolding stiff parchment, of Mister Sam scrumpling up bills. He never paid them.

Lizard-like, Mister Sam's heavily hooded eyes slide shut. He lies still and dumb again. Writing's scrawled across both sides of parchment in my hand, aloud I read but strain to make any meaning of such fancy words:
31st July 1838. Sir Joshua Rowe, Kingston
. I remember Sir Joshua Rowe, Chief Justice of Jamaica, staying at Cinnamon Hill. Memories pour into my head. Disasters long past appear clearly now. Even Chief Justice of Jamaica knew of Mister Sam's wicked ways.

Standing behind Mister Sam in Cinnamon Hill study, wondering how to protect Mary Ann from him, I watched packet ship's sails tighten, white blades slicing a blue skyline.

‘When Sir Joshua Rowe arrives I shall enlist his assistance for my swift departure for America,' Mister Sam said. He broke red wax letter seal.

‘Packet come?' I asked, watching him read.

Lolling back, he tipped chair up on its legs, rested boots on study-desk edge. He cared little for what I said. Him eye flickered, ‘News of the brats at last.' He laughed. ‘My sister, Henrietta, would find me a wife. Shall I tell her I already have one?' He glanced through an open window at glistening sea. ‘William Weld, damn him. Thank heaven
that
lawsuit's over.' Raising a glass, saying, ‘Freedom! At last!' Mister Sam sipped rum then turned straight to me. Back then he had a straw-coloured moustache, it went up and down whenever him lips moved. ‘My cousin says we should expect trouble with the slaves tonight. A minor uprising again. Is that true?'

‘Me cyaan say, sir.'

Knocking at hardwood study door Old Simeon, munching tobacco, shuffled in. ‘Me announcin Minister Ope. E walk in by back door, says e wait in great all fe yu.'

‘You can take your leave for now, Kaydie,' Mister Sam said. ‘Yes, and before you disappear, remember to leave a full bottle of rum out there for me in the drawing-room.'

But I stayed in study-room after he left. I spied though open door crack and heard all Mister Sam and Minister Hope Waddell said.

They argued. Argued. Argued all afternoon in drawing-room over no more Sunday worship, wages for freed apprentices.

Minister Hope suddenly bawled, ‘Sam, you will cease your wicked ways.'

Mister Sam tore through great hall, darted up stairs, shouting, ‘What right have you to tell me how to run my own plantation?'

Hope Waddell was shouting, ‘The plantation is your father's. Carey's still the attorney!'

Upstairs doors opened and slammed shut. From outside came distant cheering; shouts; it was hard to tell what made such a noise. Looking out from study-room side window, I saw Mary Ann soaking up late-afternoon sunlight beside stove-wood bundles. I saw she in my head – wildly she bolted back and forth in a blue blur. Between me, Charles, Mister Sam, she was caught – a doctor-bird trapped in a glass case. Reason and order vanished in a haze of beating wings flying like my own rage. Mary Ann had not long been back with me working in great house after first time I found she with Mister Sam and Charles had hid she in old shacks. Charles told me minister said he would speak with Mister Sam, put an end to Mister Sam's wicked ways. I went from study-room, ran to minister. He had fallen silent and was gazing through jalousie blinds across Cinnamon Hill garden. A powerful anger came upon me.

Into drawing-room Mary Ann came running. ‘Wot's dat noise, Mama? Wot de cane-cutters waan?' Pulling my apron she said, ‘Cane-cutters going down plantation hill.' I glanced through front window and saw a crowd streaming past great-house driveway.

Minister's bawl carried up staircase: ‘Sam, the Lord is your Master. Let His spirit guide you.' Shaking with anger minister made to climb staircase. Him soft hand went hard like it'd throttle wood banister.

Afraid to leave Mary Ann near Mister Sam I told she, ‘Go. Do yu chores.' I looked down into she twisted and burning with love face.

Yanking my apron, Mary Ann was chanting ‘Freedom! Freedom! Freedom! Dat wot cane-cutters say.'

‘Trouble reach ere,' I said. ‘Mek yuself go, Minister Waddell. Slip troo back door, ride out by cut wind.' Minister's cheeks drained white like bleached starched linen. ‘Me lock door behind yu wid Mister Sam key fram under doormat, ere.'

Glancing at we as he left, ‘I pity you,' minister said. ‘May the good Lord fill you with His strength, for I'll not return to Cinnamon Hill.' He couldn't look at Mary Ann. He knew he had betrayed she. Quickly he was gone. Cinnamon Hill air felt much colder after that.

I don't care if you don't return, I was thinking. You too weak, minister, to change Mister Sam from doing what he do to Mary Ann, for all you promised Charles, for all you ranting too.

Mary Ann led me to upper verandah. Overlooking sugar works we eyes clearly drank in what trouble was about. Slaves bobbed out from bushes and along goat tracks. Mounting saddle as horse flung up its tail, minister galloped down plantation path.

Ragged and crude drumbeat pulsed through evening air. Mary Ann scraped sharp fingernails up and down she arms, like she skin was crawling alive with biting bugs.

‘Papa say me turn yu crazy,' Mary Ann said with honest voice and face. ‘Papa say yu a lunatic like yu ma.'

Wanting to say I'm not mad, don't fret, don't be vexed, Mary Ann –
Lord, lift me dawta up to Yu
, I was praying. ‘Look,' I said, ‘Mary Ann, flowers.' Wanting to distract she from scratching I pointed at flowers of half-bud half-blossom nosing between orange-tree leaves in front garden below. But she paid me no heed.

‘Oo sleep on de ocean bed, Mama?' she small voice asked. ‘Monsters?'

‘Only fish.' I was gazing between side-window shutters as Jancra's black wings slipped from a branch into soft blue sky.

‘Me tink it monsters, or bad men dere. Me head full of monsters,' she said. Peering down between verandah rails, Mary Ann cowered, shrinking from Jancra's path. ‘Mama, ow yu do know wen yu ded?'

I moved behind Mary Ann, lifted up she chin and looked hard into she small, more than sad face. ‘Jancra cyaan hurt yu,' I said. She didn't want to look at me. Not then. Not ever since, it seems. She stood up straight, each pointed step she took leading to Mister Sam's ottoman.

Lying down, Mary Ann stretched, tiny feet feeling for a silk-covered footstool. She voice, faint as harp strings, sang, ‘Me mama not fraid fe Jancra.'

My eyes followed a cloud of darkness unravelling from east to west. ‘Look! We can see round de world fram dis verandah. Dere's de moon, see, on dat side. See sun setting on de odder.'

‘Kaydia! Kaydie!' Mister Sam called.

Turning for stairwell bottom I said to Mary Ann, ‘Wait ere fe me.'

Mister Sam called me back into him study. ‘Fetch my uniform.' He folded a key into my hand. ‘And musket. I'm going to keep watch from here. Mary Ann, polish my boots. Mary Ann!' he called. ‘Mary Ann! Where in hell is she?'

I ran to upper verandah, chasing my hope that Mary Ann would still be there. Every room I ran through stared starkly. ‘Mary Ann! Mary Ann!' I bawled. Fearing Mister Sam, Mary Ann will have run to stable-block, crept to strong raw-leather smell behind saddle rack. Always my daughter hide in some dark corner. Perhaps where pimento trees' shadows play in warm fragrant shade of crumbling stable walls. Peering over stable-door tops nibbled jagged by horses' teeth, darkness answered me.

From chamber closet I brought Mister Sam's red militia jacket and hard cured cowhide belt.

I sat alone against whitewashed upper verandah wall, gazing out over sugar works and thickly wooded slopes stretching through swampy saltwater morass to open sea. Cane-cutters from hill villages poured down valleys by now to flat land at foothill's base, round swampy morass, dancing onto coast road in a mess of colour. And noise. Whistles, cowbells, horns, reeds. Goatskin drums. My head throbbed with strange yet familiar sounds. Women with rattles strapped to wrists, ankles, came dancing from slave quarters around great house.

Hundreds of people, young and old, who'd been forced into slavery at Cinnamon Hill, Greenwood and Barrett Hall, celebrated, rushing from shacks to join this parade. But I cared little. Everything I reached for turned into dirt.

Leaning on verandah rail I strained to see if Mary Ann's head bobbed out at sea. That ever deepening blue was broken only by grey patches of reefs close to shore. Inland, patches of sunlight spilled gold across treetops, light flared from candle-wood torches. Under beds; behind curtains I made a search.

‘Me look fe Mary Ann everywhere an me cyaan find she,' I said when Mister Sam returned in red militia uniform.

Mister Sam's deadly pale face watched hillside coming to life. ‘Where do they go?'

‘William Knibb in Falmouth church.'

‘But the church can't hold this many.'

‘Den dey fill school-house, court-house.'

‘Surely Demar will order the militia to assemble.'

But Doctor Demar didn't come. Mister Richard Barrett gone to Spanish Town in Kingston. Militia messenger didn't appear. All Cinnamon Hill cane piece deserted.

‘Yu treat cane-cutters strong, too strong,' I said. Mister Sam wrung him hands. Dusk hovered. Birds chattered. My ears throbbed and burned with straining to hear Mary Ann's voice sweeten evening air. ‘Me dawta, where she? Me have to know. Yu must ansa me.'

Mister Sam was silent. On upper verandah he stood, where earlier that day me and Mary Ann had watched minister gallop away, struck by a screaming sun, a flashing, glittering sea. Sea was now a rippling cool turquoise blue. Hurrying from filthy quarters others still joined slaves' wild dance, lit by orange torch flames now.

‘Lock the doors,' Mister Sam's voice trembled. All he saw he still believed he had a right to. We watched carts cross flat swamp at foothill's base to Falmouth – that distant, strange land – yet all paths led there, and red-yellow flames on black night sky blazed with one lifelong desire. ‘God only knows how we'll get the crop in with this . . . this . . . farrago.' Slaves, as Mister Sam's mouth moved, still crossed Salt Marsh for Falmouth, creeping night heavy with thunder of pounding drums. Light from candle-wood torches licked empty stomachs, backs. It was a mass of black skin, animal masks, feathered headdresses. Heathen practices – as Pa calls them. Rebecca Laslie . . . What would she have said?

Night, a dark smear, drew across pink sky. A manic chant of mockery grew louder. Below me swirled an ocean of defeat. One man, with grey flowing beard and stringy mop of hair – him too a slave, ragged, lewd, cut from Africa – joined slaves' wild dance on stilts.

‘Your daughter,' Mister Sam said, ‘is probably running with those lawless lunatics.' He then looked away from me, and said in a quiet tone, ‘I have been recalled.'

‘Recalled?' I said.

‘Papa's letter in today's packet said I have been recalled to England for readjustment. I must sail very soon.'

Struck off short in wonder that Mister Sam could leave for ever, I stood in quiet wonderment. No more injury? Me, Charles and Mary Ann will have freedom to live again? That happy moment lasted long. So very long. Peace, it hit my body so strong my legs quaked.

‘Hope Masterton Waddell is behind this. The decision smells of him,' Mister Sam said. ‘Without Carey's attorneyship I'm a bloody impotent manager. Waddell's forcing me to leave Jamaica. Mend my wicked ways. Bastard! The bastard!' he hissed between clenched teeth.

I knew what was coming. And I knew it wouldn't be quick. Mister Sam can turn feisty bad. Each shout shook stonework and echoed in my head sameway as rocks rumble down mountainsides. Hurling books from shelves, ripping down curtains, bashing jalousie blinds. Then he shrieked like a parakeet. A staring-glass crashed. Smashed. Splinters spun over polished floors. Sweeping chaos across silk rugs Mister Sam's rage rushed like hurricane. Anger weaving through my body, I was running over parchments strewn about cool dark chambers, calling, ‘Mary Ann! Mary Ann!'

Fixing my eyes on Mister Sam's dressing-table I seized a walnut jewellery box with no sense of how to open it, how hard to throw. Until. It smashed. Gathering gold chains, brooches, dagger-sharp split wood, moving quick on worry, up narrow ladder I scrambled and into attic room. Except for Mary Ann I wasn't afraid there. Perfectly silent I became, lying on my back, listening, breathing darkness in.

Knots of stars in dusk-dark sky shone between roof shingles. Deeper, deeper I fell, drifting in attic's crib of darkness, sinking into a lumpy mattress Charles and I once used as we bed. Lifeless. But for breath stroking top lip. Even clatter coming up from downstairs, wrapped up in greater dark, became swallowed by black. Something like strong wind I need, that I can feel. That can hold me, cradle me, so there's more sense to life. Wood floor's disappeared, and I'm groping for something to hold on to. Someone. But there isn't anything until I see Mama again, and find Mary Ann.