The Pull Of Freedom (12 page)

Chapter Thirty-Three

Asha had just returned from the blacksmith’s shed when she heard Jamilia comment to Mamee, “you need to go to the doctor.”

“I prefer Mother Esther’s herbs,” was Mamee’s retort.

“You are sick and can hardly manage,” Jamilia sighed. “The Massa will be mad if he hears that you are ill and refused to get treatment.”

“The English and their treatments are a joke,” Mamee said weakly. “I am going to die anyway, why not allow me to in peace.”

Asha gasped as she entered the kitchen, “no Mamee, you can’t die.”

Mamee chuckled, “we all gots to go sometimes my girl.”

“But you aren’t even old,” Asha wailed.

“My heart is weak,” Mamee said clutching her chest.

Jamilia looked at her, concern etched across her forehead. “Asha go to Presto’s garden and carry back some pepper mint,” she said referring to the slave who planted only herbs in the small plot of land assigned to him for a garden. He exchanged herbs with the other slaves for food.

Asha nodded and stumbled out of the kitchen shocked, she had no idea that Mamee wasn't well. She had a frown on her face when she walked directly into Mark.

He laughed down at her. “I can see you are not in a good mood.”

Asha nodded and glanced up into his smiling eyes. “I have to get herbs for Mamee,” she said breathily. She had not spoken to him since the locket event. She still wondered what he had to tell her.

“I will come with you,” he said pushing his hands into his pockets.

“No, no,” Asha said alarmed looking around. The bookkeeper was walking from the Great House and Massa Simmonds was standing on the veranda his hand akimbo.

“I see you are right,” said Mark murmuring, “meet me there. I will distract my father.” He headed toward his father.

“No Mark,” Asha said strongly.

Mark turned around and looked at her his expression bewildered, “why not?”

Asha swallowed, “I heard that Massa Simmonds is threatening to sell me if I don’t stop talking to you.”

Mark frowned, “he would have to sell me too,” he said feelingly. “Just meet me there, I need to talk to you.”

Asha sighed and turned away. She turned sixteen today, her life was getting complicated. She might lose Mamee. She might be sold and it was doubtful that Mark would defy his father for a slave girl. His interest in her was something she had dreamt about in her small bed in the small cabin she shared with Mamee. She had no idea it would have come to fruition. Might be she shouldn’t have wished for it so hard.

She was bent over the shiny green peppermint plant when Mark came behind her.

“I want you to know that I'm deeply attracted to you,” he cleared his throat and looked away. “My father just informed me that I am to marry Gloriel Penwood. Her father has the plantation that was attacked the other night. He is also in shipping and has connections in the queen’s court.”

Asha looked up at him questioningly, what was he talking about?

Mark shuffled his feet and clenched his hands, “my father dislikes my interest in you and says if I do not come to my senses he will sell you.”

Asha gasped, her hands trembled with the peppermint leaves clutched tightly in them. She turned away from Mark and started walking toward the Great House her head held high.

“I would rather marry a girl I do not love than allow that to happen,” Mark called after her. “I think I love you Asha Simmonds.”

Tears came to her eyes,
he thinks he loves me. Why did he have to show interest in me and upset my life?
Tears were streaming down her face when she entered the kitchen. Her tight curls were released from the cloth she had bound it with early in the day.

“Where’s Mamee?” She asked Jamilia sniffling.

Jamilia looked at her sadly, “she collapsed a minute ago, they carried her to the cabin.”

Asha’s tears came in earnest, she was losing Mamee and she would probably be sold.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Cudjoe and his men crouched behind the trees that surrounded the vast acres of sugar cane that was a part of the Simmonds plantation. It was well past mid-day and the sun was now a gentle cub rather than a growling lion.

They were well concealed with leaves and moss; their faces were plastered with green liquid from the bark of the annatto tree. He could hear the slaves singing in the field, the custom was to split them up into bands of young and frail, strong and hearty and those who were in between, the overseer would then send them in the fields according to this assimilation of their strength.

He was closer to the strong and hearty, they were singing a song, one person would sing a line and a next would pick up. Their shiny black bodies were glittering with sweat, if Cudjoe wanted he could probably touch the slave bending down close to him thinking he was a tree, he was that still.

A woman closer to him than the others stomped her foot and sang in a deep tenor,

Say them ban di drums oh

Say them ban di drums oh

But abeng will blow oh

But abeng will blow oh

Out of the corner of his eyes, Cudjoe could see the shuffling of the ‘tree’ closest to him. It was Jelani; he had been spying on the estate the longest and had reported that the overseer responsible for this band was none other than the hated John Smith.

Cudjoe could see the overseer as he slowly rode through the field. He whipped one man because he slouched over while weeding grass. Cudjoe clenched his teeth; hatred had him in its grasp, bands of pain gripped his head.

Why do they think people of his race are animals? The sheer hatred for the overseer almost made him give away his position. John Smith came closer to Cudjoe; he could smell the powerful scent of horseflesh and also the scent of the overseer. He clenched his teeth, where they were they could drag him from the horse.

The nearest overseer was quite a distance from them and wouldn’t miss John Smith for a while. He raised his finger, and his men, dressed like trees, overpowered the overseer, they dragged him from the horse and pushed leaves in his mouth, he uttered not a word as they tied him up. The look of fear in his eyes was priceless. Cudjoe’s men led him and the horse away. The slaves who were working closest to them looked up and then continued working as if nothing had happened.

The woman who was singing about the loss of the drums started another song,

We raise de wheat

Dey gib us de corn

We bake de bread

Dey gib us de cruss

We sif de meal

Dey gib us de huss

We peal de meat

Dey gib us de skin

And dat’s de way

Dey takes us in

The entire section of the field sang and a new energy permeated the air. The mean overseer, John Smith, was no more.

*****

“What do you mean John Smith disappeared?” Robert bellowed crossly.

Peterkin was the bearer of bad news and he stood with hat in hand and listened as his boss ranted and raved. “We were in the south part of the field. We noticed he was missing when the evening bell rang and his gang of men came in without him.”

Robert scratched his head; John would not take off without a word.

Peterkin shrugged, he was not paid to watch John as well as the slaves.

“It's almost dark,” Robert said fretfully, since the plantation raids were coming closer to home he was not too excited to carry his men out in the dark and leave the plantation vulnerable.

“Line up the slaves from his gang, I will find out if they had seen anything.”

The slaves were summoned and Robert stood in front of twenty-two of them, one was hunched over his clothes ripped and his back bloody from John’s whip earlier in the day. Robert stared at their black faces dispassionately. They were usually very uncommunicative when questioned; banding together to help each other out, he spat on the ground.

“Where is the overseer?”

The large plantation was silent. It seemed as if time stood still. There was a certain expectation in the air.

“You,” Robert pointed at a slightly plump woman.

“Where is Massa John?”

“I is not sure,” the woman said to Robert, “he was coming toward our row and then he took off in the trees.”

Robert grunted. They all looked as puzzled as he did but he wasn’t fooled by their quizzical stares. “Pass the whip, Peterkin.”

Peterkin handed him the whip and Robert stood with it in his hand. This was usually the acid test. The whip would always break down the weak link; eyes that were blank would skitter away in fright of being discovered to be lying.

All eyes were on him and each person looked as certain of their lack of information as before. Only the whipped man was too hunched over to show fear.

“Take him to the hospital,” Robert growled. He was obviously wasting time with the bunch in front of him.

“Okay Peterkin, half of the men will go searching for John the other half will stay here on guard.”

“Mark,” he bellowed. His son, who was usually unconcerned about plantation affairs, was nowhere to be found

“Asha,” he saw the girl skulking in the yard, her slight body hunched over, “find Mark now.”

She nodded and ran into the house.

Chapter Thirty-Five

She found Mark upstairs staring through the window into the yard.

“Mark,” she whispered.

He spun around a look of joy on his face, then he turned sombre, “I thought you came to tell me you feel the same way about me, but I can see you wringing your hands.”

“Your father is calling,” Asha said breathlessly, “Massa John has disappeared.”

Mark headed to the door, “I'm not sure I want to help find John.” He looked at her as he passed her, her pink lips were moist and there was a bead of sweat on her upper lip. “Tell me something Asha, do you even like me back a bit.”

“It would make no sense,” Asha turned away he grabbed her hand.

“Why?”

Asha looked at him incredulously, “there is no feeling in slavery Massa Mark.”

Mark winced, he had told her before not to call him Massa. It emphasised the differences between them, differences that he was probably too young and naïve to deal with.

“We could go away together to another part of the island, or even to England, we could live together but to all appearances you would be my slave.”

Asha snorted, “no.”

“Tell me how you feel.” Mark urged her, he knew his father would be waiting impatiently but he needed to know how she felt about him.

“I feel like a slave,” Asha said cruelly as she watched his complexion pale. She looked at where his hand was on her sleeve and then really looked him in the face; she rarely did that, look on a white person thoroughly.

His dark green eyes had pain in them and a fatality that melted her heart. This man truly had feelings for her. The shade of his skin was just a cover for the person inside. He was a good man. Might be it was true that there were good men in every race.

She sighed, “I like you Mark, but it would never work between ... ” He placed his finger on her lips and then headed to the door lighter than he had felt in a while.

“We’ll see Miss Asha, we’ll see,” he muttered.

*****

The white men searched for their own in the dusk, Nanny watched this keenly. She had twenty men with her and she could count Cudjoe’s thirty. He was planning to attack; she saw it in his stance. He was dressed as a tree, wise to the ways of war; Nanny could see that their strategy was to lead the white men further away from the plantation and then strike. The stillness in the air told her that the slaves were anticipating the event. There was no singing or low rumbling that usually accompanied the slaves after a long day of work.

They advanced to merge with Cudjoe’s men; Cudjoe’s only indication of surprise was the widening of his blood shot eyes. The white men weren’t close, so Nanny could talk.

“It took me many days to reach here.”

“Why did you come?” Cudjoe asked.

“God sent me,” Nanny said matter of factly. “When we left here many years ago I knew I would return some day for your offspring.”

“My offspring?” Cudjoe chuckled., “I have no slave offspring.”

Nanny smirked, “remember that house slave that you couldn't stop looking at.”

Cudjoe nodded, “her name is Martha. The coward.”

“Do not speak ill of the dead,” Nanny said certainly. “She died giving birth to your offspring.”

Cudjoe swallowed.

“I came to take her away from here,” Nanny looked deeply at her brother, “do not protest.”

Cudjoe shrugged, he hadn’t seen his sister in years but Ashanti women always knew best. His mother was a strong woman in his tribe, a warrior who had great powers of perception. He could trust Nanny on this.

She did not speak to him after that, she just crouched into the gathering dark, her gaze straight ahead.