‘Bring a blanket to cover the missus,’ Godfrey requested of July. No, not the one from her closet, but the old one which was used in the kitchen and . . . well, get the dog off it then. The missus and her belongings were lying, hid under the stinking cloth in the cart when, in a muffled squeak of sneezing and snivelling, Caroline complained of extreme discomfort to Godfrey. But mounting the cart with a youthful bound, he merely bellowed on the whining white woman to hush up and remain as still and silent as death.
‘Move along,’ Godfrey commanded the mule. But the sleepy beast did not obey until it felt the crack of a whip upon its back. ‘Move on,’ Godfrey called, as the mule began to clop a slow progress away from Amity.
And if July had known then—as Godfrey, straight-backed atop the cart, slid that lumbering buggy along the path into the pink-purple mist of the morning—that she would never see Mr Godfrey again, then perhaps—oh, reader, perhaps—July may have raised her hand to wave him goodbye.
CHAPTER 12
OH, WHAT A HUSH did settle upon that house. With no missus nor massa within it the wooden planks of the floor did stretch and yawn, as no heavy foot was about to pound them. The chairs did breathe a sigh, for no fat-batty was about to crush them. The moats of grime that swirled within the gleams of sunlight floated softly down to rest. And, no longer required to look their best, the drapes at the windows drooped.
July slid the length of the polished floor within the hall upon her dirty apron. She had never before reached so far in one glide. She thought to call Molly to witness this daring . . . but stopped. For with Godfrey away, looking upon mischief other than hers, if she kept far from the kitchen and the gaze of Molly’s good eye then, at that moment, she was free.
So. Peering upon the lid of the silver salver within the dining room, July’s nose appeared to her as big-big as a boiled ham, her pursed lips plump as rolls of Miss Hannah’s chocolate. And in the large serving spoon she, and the whole world, was reflected upside down, then back upon the ground in the spoon’s other side. On her head, on her feet, on her head, on her feet. And the spoon made the glasses upon the sideboard tinkle with tune when she tapped the metal upon them. The big ones went bong and little ones sang ting. Bong, ting, ting, bong.
Those funny pictures upon the wall that the massa called maps were just like the marks that patterned the missus’s white blouse after she had dribbled her tea. They were not pictures really, for there were no scolding eyes within them to follow where she walked. Unlike that portrait of the dead missus in the drawing room; she watched July all the while and did tut when July threw the missus’s chair cushions upon the floor to jump from one to the other so she might feel the soft silk yield between her toes. July had to leave the room under that dead missus’s scorning.
And the mirror within the bedchamber gasped when July’s dark face appeared within it. Only white skin with pitiless blue eyes usually preened there. July, flouring her face with a puff of the missus’s face powder, sneezed away the stink from up her nose before she ran from that peeping mirror’s gaze.
If this were her house, July decided, she would not have a cupboard so tall-tall that it did not allow her to look with ease upon all the pretty plates displayed there. She had to carry a chair from across the dining room, and stand upon her tiptoe to reach the first shelf alone. She would have those pretty blue and white plates resting near at hand so that at any time she might tangle herself within the story that lay upon them—fly with those birds that soared above the tree that shaded the house, that sat near the bridge, that spanned the river, that carried the boat. July, sipping the air from one of the cups, stuck out her little finger, just as white people did when they tipped that heavenly porcelain to their skinny lips.
But oh, July was exhausted—all this freedom did tire her out. Landing herself upon her missus’s daybed she cried, ‘Marguerite, come fetch me some tea.’ Her voice, running around the room, found no one to obey the order. ‘Marguerite, where is my tea?’ Still no one came. She sighed. Oh huff, oh puff—what a difficult life it is to be a white lady upon this island.
Then, as she rested, quite forlorn, she heard, ‘Ah, Miss July,’ cough, cough, ‘greetings.’
She nearly bit the birds off the fancy cup for Nimrod startled her so. Her little finger was still raised as Nimrod, grinning, carried on saying, ‘What you doing there, Miss July?’
Nimrod’s white waistcoat was smeared with something green, while his trousers carried sooty prints from his hands. And this man’s legs were bowed so July could still see the closed door behind him as he stood before her. His few-few-tooth-grin tried to muster some sort of charm, but was hindered—for while his one eye looked firm upon her face, the other roamed up and down her body and everywhere it pleased. But still, it was a freeman who stood over her, seeming ready to gobble her up. July put down the cup and, looking firmly upon the eye that needed to be taught to stare, said, ‘Bring me some tea and be quick.’ Nimrod, scratching his head, frowned for the briefest second before those lonely teeth once more set out to enchant. Then he bowed low.
The knife, fork, spoon and blue and white plate that Nimrod laid at the end of the dining table for July were placed well enough, but still she had to punish him. For he was too slow. He was a dull and indolent nigger. She took the spoon and hit it upon his head. He yelped—oh—at the sharp pain, then promised her he would do better. Yet he did not pull out the chair far enough for her to sit, nor push it in close enough for her to eat.
‘You are a very stupid nigger and I will see you whipped,’ July cried.
And Nimrod cringed, ‘Sorry, missus,’ before her.
The orange upon the plate was not peeled. ‘How am I to eat this?’ July asked him. As Nimrod leant forward to splice the fruit with a knife, July hit him once more upon the head with her spoon. ‘You are too close to me, nigger,’ she told him. And, as he jumped back from her, she yelled, ‘What about this fruit? Am I to peel it myself?’ When he leaned over to attempt a second splice, she slapped him about the ear. ‘Are you disobeying me?’ she asked him.
‘No missus,’ he said, breathless.
‘How dare you speak to me while I am at my table,’ she said, before striking him again with her spoon.
The glass Nimrod filled with red wine overflowed, the dark-plum contents dribbling upon the table. ‘Be careful, nigger, that is our finest wine,’ July was forced to yell.
Nimrod fell to his knees before her pleading, ‘No beat me, missus, no beat me.’
‘But I must,’ July said, slapping his head, ‘or you will never learn.’ Her fingers, still sticky from the orange, wrapped the stem of the glass, then lifted it to her thirsty mouth. She gulped two mouthfuls before the pungency made her splutter and cough. It was disgusting. She had never tasted anything so renk. ‘Are you poisoning me, nigger?’ July said.
Nimrod’s fearful face was all July could see through her watering eyes. She coughed again and again and again. But then the wine gradually soothed to a warmth at her throat. She licked the sticky drops from her lips. Then took another sip that tasted a little sweeter. And then another. Until Nimrod, inclining his head, asked her if she would like him to pour her some more.
And soon July had the urge to tickle Nimrod under his chin. She leaned to grab his little beard so she might feel those spiky hairs, but her elbow slipped from the table—her hand clutching nothing. This was very, very, very, funny to her. So funny that her wriggling and giggling slipped her from the chair to land her upon the ground. And suddenly all was dark, for her head kerchief had fallen across her eyes.
Under the table was as gloomy as a stormy sky. ‘Come, put me back,’ July cried out, for she did not have the strength to lift herself from the floor. She was stuck to it. As Nimrod caught her around the chest to raise her, she said, ‘Bring me more wine, nigger.’ And as he sat her back upon the chair, she made grab again for his chin. But missed. He handed her the wine glass, which swayed until the sweet and precious wine did spill wet upon her ski
rt.
‘Is me pretty, Mr Nimrod?’ she asked as he took the glass to fill it again. He did not answer which was so, so, so vexing to her. This man was fussing—he was around her this way, he was around her that way. He was making her dizzy. ‘Sit, sit, Mr Nimrod. Sit still so me can know your answer,’ she said. And Nimrod, not sitting as she commanded but fretting still with something, called out that she was prettier than any white woman he knew.
‘Prettier than Miss Clara?’
‘Miss Clara. Cha. You is prettier than Miss Clara,’ came a reply from across the room. Which was very, very, very pleasing to July because Miss Clara was not dark like she and so she was pretty. Oh yes, Miss Clara was fine.
And Nimrod had plenty women in town, for Miss Hannah did talk of them, but only when Nimrod was nowhere near. One, a sour-faced woman, owned a house that had little bow-legged pickney everywhere, Miss Hannah said.
‘Mr Nimrod, how many pickney you have?’ July called out to him.
He was in the room but she could not see him. But she felt the breath he blew out on the back of her neck for he was behind her, holding up more wine. ‘Tell me,’ she said. But he just sucked long upon his teeth and began speaking about . . . he was speaking about a pony. A pony. A Shettlewood pony. His Shettlewood pony. Nimrod was speaking of his Shettlewood pony. Not even white people can own such a fine beast, he said. And he looked so serious, staring his obedient eye upon July while the other gazing upon her chest looked so comical. July could not help but giggle. And her nose did run with snot. So she wiped it upon her skirt. And July wanted to ask if she might get a ride off him—the pony. She opened her mouth to ask, but forgot what she was to say, for Nimrod said that if she was his woman she could come and visit him in town. Which was very, very, very funny, yet July could not remember why.
And Nimrod said that he would talk to her massa about making her free because he was an important black man in town, a freeman. And again he mentioned the pony. Which reminded July of a song she sang that Miss Rose had taught her about a pony. It went la, la, la, de dum, de dum. No. It went de dum, de dum, la, la. Was he holding her hand? Did Nimrod have her hand in his? They were running through the house and she could not keep up, for the walls were moving in and out.
But the bed was cold and soft. She did fall upon it and wish to sleep. But. But. It was the massa’s room. The massa’s big-big bed. No, no, no, the massa would not like her in his bed. He hated the smell of niggers. The massa would have her flogged. ‘Massa no like us in his bed,’ July told Nimrod.
And Nimrod said, ‘There be no white bakkra here—we don’ chase them from this island. Black man gon’ rule now.’ And the way he looked upon her with a sly eye was so, so, so funny.
The pillows were soft, but when July closed her eyes she began to fly. Up to the ceiling she went, then soaring down, swerving swiftly, then swooping around. ‘Me flyin’ in the room, Mr Nimrod. Me a bird.’ Only when she opened her eyes was she back upon the bed.
And there was Nimrod, resting upon one elbow saying, ‘But you is very handsome, Miss July.’
This did make her chest jump with a hiccup before she said, ‘You wan’ marry me, Mr Nimrod?’ And his look was so serious that she could do nothing but laugh, especially when Nimrod leaned over her to press his lips upon hers.
July was not woken by Nimrod snoring his foul breath into her face. Nor by the constant bucking of the cloven-hoofed donkey that was surely trapped within her head and butted and butted and butted her skull for release. No. It was the massa, John Howarth’s, voice shouting, ‘Oh, Caroline, leave me alone, for pity’s sake. You’re back now. What more is there to it?’ that startled July awake.
A feather pillow under her head, morning sunlight through shutters, a blue bowl upon a nightstand, a clock, a rug, a chest with drawers—she was still lying, trespassing, within the massa’s bed! She parted her lips to call Nimrod awake, but her mouth was as dry as a flour barrel. ‘Mr Nimrod,’ she croaked, for her voice had a devil’s gruffness. She had to shake him.
Rudely roused, his two eyes fixed her with an ill-tempered glare before he listened and heard all at one time. Then, moving fleet as a winged being, those two trespassers leaped from the bed and scurried beneath it, just as the massa flung open the door to the room yelling, ‘Caroline, please, please, have you any idea of the seriousness of what is happening here. Have you? Oh . . . oh . . . oh . . . Shut up,’ then slammed the door behind him.
Two corpses could not have lain as still as Nimrod and July beneath that bed. While the massa paced the room from this side to that—his boots shedding mud across the floor, then pounding it to dust as he went back and forth, back and forth—they lay lifeless, yet keen as hunted runaways.
All the while, the massa was mumbling a lamentation of garbled words. This droning, sometimes punctured by howls of, ‘It’s intolerable,’ or ‘How could they?’ went on and on and on. July was too feared to gaze upon Nimrod when the massa suddenly stopped with his pacing, lest she detect some fright within Nimrod’s eyes at this tricky situation. The massa scraped the legs of a chair along the floor, then sat down heavily upon it, just in front of them. And Nimrod, with an almost imperceptible movement of his shoulder, managed to convey that he did not understand what the massa was doing.
Trapped within this stifling quiet, July began to fret—how long would they have to stay hid? She needed to piss water. But the massa remained still. The blazing, striped shadow from the sunlit shutters inched its way across the floor toward them. And still the massa sat—his breath sometimes heavy and weighted with sighs, sometimes shallow and quick, as if he were being chased.
A gecko scrambled over both Nimrod and July’s head. And still the massa sat. He moved his left foot a little, then he crossed one leg over the other before parting them to sit astride again. The gecko, returning, scrambled back the other way across them. And still the massa sat. And he sat.
July began to wriggle. She needed to stretch her limbs, to find air that was not heavy with the stench of Nimrod’s breath. She needed a little moisture for her parched mouth. But Nimrod, laying a hand upon her shoulder, held her firm. And their eyes, finally meeting in the anxious gloom of that cave below the bed asked each other silently, What is he doing? When can we go?
Then the massa’s mumbling began again. He was fiddling with something. There was the sound of a click and the scrape of a fingernail upon wood. Suddenly there was a flash-bang! so loud, so bright that Nimrod and July, jolted by the burst of it, both struck their heads upon the bed’s underside.
A shot! It was a shot! And the massa, felled like a pole-axed steer, clattered on to the floor. His head struck the ground an arm’s length from where July and Nimrod hid. Dirty smoke billowed from his open mouth. His eyes were wide and staring upon them with grim shock, as if he had just discovered them concealed there. But he had not. For a thick spout of blood that sprang from the back of his head spilled down his blackened face and across the floor.
CHAPTER 13
RUN! RUN! GET FAR from here. Trouble! White man’s trouble! Flee! But there was no time. For Caroline Mortimer was already within the doorway—her face pallid, her mouth slack, her breath stopped. Trapped lying beneath the bed, Nimrod’s limbs twitched with phantom running, and a fretful July still needed to piss water.
Seeing her brother lying upon the floor, Caroline decided to believe him drunk; after all it would not have been the first time. The overturned chair, the unmistakable clap of a pistol firing (for she now knew that sound well) would, she thought, have some simple explanation; as would that grey drift of gun-smoke that dimmed the room. ‘John,’ she said, almost gaily, ‘what has happened?’
But then Tam Dewar entered in upon the scene. He pushed roughly past her, then dropped to his knees next to her brother and turned his prone body over. He leaned his ear to her brother’s chest before prising the spent pistol from between his fingers. It was only when the overseer, taking her brother’s head within his hands, stared aghast at the
grievous lesion—the gory blood-black crater that was once the back of his head—that Caroline Mortimer’s innocent fancy vanished. Her legs went limp beneath her. She staggered across the room to land with a hefty fall upon the bed. She did not hear the overseer declare her brother dead for she was too busy screaming, ‘Bring the doctor! Someone, someone run for the physic! Marguerite, quickly! Marguerite! Where is Marguerite? She must bring the doctor. Marguerite!’
Molly, arriving, took in the circumstance faster than the missus did with her two good eyes. ‘The massa be shot,’ Molly shouted. While Byron, eyeballs gawping like a whistling frog’s, ran in-and-out, in-and-out the room, proclaiming, ‘Massa dead, massa dead.’ Which brought Florence and Lucy to the doorway. ‘Dead, dead, him is no more,’ they relayed over their shoulder for who knows who to carry it upon the next breath. It was Patience who caught the blare of that fierce chat-chat. She rushed in upon the room, demanding loudly, ‘Massa John? Is Massa John dead? Dead you say, Massa John?’
‘Stop your gawking,’ Caroline exclaimed, ‘and bring the doctor.’
The dog growled wild at the overseer bent fiddling over the massa’s body. And, Molly, smirking unmistakably with the excitement of it all said, ‘Lord, how him head mash up, missus. It mash up.’
‘Shut up! Just hold your tongue, the lot of you,’ Tam Dewar blasted upon the air. He stamped his foot, lunging at the dog until the hound turned tail. He grabbed Molly by the scruff and threw her at the doorway. She landed, stunned, against the frame. Patience, he pushed, punched, and poked, toward the door. She stumbled over Molly and both scrabbled from the room on all fours. He landed his boot upon our little Byron’s backside with so hard a kick that the boy was lifted from the floor by it and cried for several hours after. He showed his fist to Florence and Lucy, for they stood too far for him to reach with a blow. With the room now purged of negroes, he shut the door behind them with an almighty slam.