The Long Song by Andrea Levy
But an old-old woman should not be scolded by her own son! So I hid myself from him within the hut in our garden, for several hours while he perused those pages. Miss May, my son’s daughter, soon joined me. Seeing her old grandmama sitting small upon the tiny seat in that little wooden place, amongst all the broken-down things that were forgotten there, amused her. We two played old maid to pass the time and I beat her at every go. Oh how she wailed! I should let her win, she tell me. Why? I ask her. Because she is young was her only reasoning. Then she has time to learn to beat me, was my reply to that.
But my knees did ache from being folded so long within that wretched place—I was soon forced to hobble back to the house. And there my son greeted me without ever having missed me. As he handed back those pages he said with a thoughtful tone, ‘One thing, Mama . . .’ And how my heart began to race—come, it beat nearly through the cloth of my dress. Until he continued, ‘I believe I may have seen some of Mr Bear’s work,’ and commenced to describe for me, in weary detail, another of the silly artist’s pictures.
Reader, my son’s moods must now be as much of a puzzle to you, as they are to his own mama.
As I write, Miss May stands before me, shuffling her pack of cards. She commands me to stop scratching my pen upon this paper and play another hand of old maid with her. Come, I fear I will first have to allow this child to beat me if I am ever to get peace enough to continue my tale. Cha!
CHAPTER 28
THE OLD DISTILLER-MAN who toiled within the boiling house, Dublin Hilton, was one day wandering up near the great house when he did spy a white man with a fancy feathered hat upon his head. This man, standing still and erect as a doorpost, was wiping a small brush upon a large board that was resting stout upon an easel. Dublin Hilton, approaching upon this man from behind, did strain his neck to see what this man was doing. Painting a picture, Dublin soon said to himself. For there upon that board was a good likeness of Miss July (serving up something), a not-too-bad copy of the new massa, and a white woman resting upon a seat who looked like the missus—but nah, for she was too narrow.
After watching this man for a long while, Dublin Hilton soon came to think that this must be the artist he had heard so much chat-chat of. Leaning upon a stick Dublin dallied awhile longer, observing the artist painting the view of the lands of Amity into the background of this picture. One strange picture, Dublin was to tell everyone later. For the artist-man was looking down the hill and over the scruffy thatched tops of the houses within the negro village.
Now Dublin Hilton stood only a few feet behind the artist and yet this white man, gazing out with frowning absorption upon the view before him, time after time painted another bush where Dublin could clearly see the higgledy-piggledy of the negro village.
Soon Dublin approached this man with the question, ‘Pardon me, massa, but you can no see the negro dwellings?’
‘All too clearly. Now, be off with you, nigger,’ was the reply Dublin Hilton received.
However, Dublin being no longer a slave (and a man who had no need to dabble a skimmer to see if liquor would granulate), decided that now he was a free man he was able to enquire anything of this white man he desired. So he posed his question once more. The artist-man, with a heavy sigh, then told the old boiler-man that he admired the view of the lands from that position, but had no intention of including the disgusting negro hovels.
‘But they are there before you,’ said Dublin Hilton to he. At which the artist barked upon him, that no one wished to find squalid negroes within a rendering of a tropical idyll, before promising Dublin that he would set his dog upon him if he did not leave him alone.
‘But you paint an untruth,’ said Dublin Hilton.
And the artist-man did stamp his foot and scream upon the old man, ‘What business is it of yours? Away with you, nigger, away!’
Now, according to Dublin Hilton, it was just after this encounter with the artist-man that the trouble with the new massa, Robert Goodwin, did begin. However, Peggy Jump did not agree. She recalled that the massa Goodwin had already rode in upon the village to pull Ezra from out his house by his hair before she had heard the story of the artist-man. But Cornet, Peggy’s husband, agreed with Dublin. He remembered that day well. The day when the massa, caught in a devilish rage, shook Ezra like a dog with a rat for neither labouring, nor paying his rent. Come, how could Cornet forget, for he had raised a stick to the massa, yelling upon him to let Ezra go or else he would thrash him with it. And even though the massa soon calmed himself and pulled Ezra to his feet, that white man’s clear blue eyes, staring anger upon him, still haunted Cornet’s mind’s eye when he slept.
But Cornet remembered chatting with Dublin Hilton long before that day, upon the change in the overseer since he became the massa by marriage, and he was sure it was then Dublin had told him of the picture, the artist and the missing negro village. For Cornet thought the artist a cunning man to turn his eye blind to those run-down negro places.
No, the trouble had started at Christmas tide, when Robert Goodwin had sent the driver, Mason Jackson, to round up all the negroes still residing upon Amity and gather them into the mill yard. Cornet recalled that to press this gathering to move faster the driver had fired his whip. And one commotion did break out as Giles Millar and Betsy wrested that slaving cow-skin from out that dog-driver’s hand. They were slaves no more, they yelled upon him, and would dance to no lash! They threw his whip into the river and would have drowned the driver too, but the massa Goodwin had already begun to speak.
There were three fields of cane that must be taken off, the massa told everyone from atop his barrels. Those that worked to bring in this crop would be paid a full day’s wage for a full day’s toil. Come, he smiled, as he urged all to work hard over the coming days so the cane might be brought in.
But it was Christmas. Most before him were dressed in their fine holiday clothes. For example, Miss Sarah, from the first gang, had been making her costume for the Joncanoe festival in town for the whole year. She was a blue girl. As Britannia, she was to be paraded along King’s Street with a trident in her hand and a helmet made in blue silk and silver upon her head. Long time had she waited for the honour of raising the banner that said, ‘Blue girls for ever’. So no, she would not work the two off-days of Christmas.
And Peggy and Cornet had their daughter (the one who was sold away), upon a visit with them. They had not seen her pretty face for many years. She had walked with her little pickney from far, far away, and had arrived just as Peggy and Cornet were finally packed up to leave, to seek out her. So they would not work at Christmas, for they had already killed and plucked three chickens for this joyful holiday. And Mary Ellis, who still did live with Peggy and Cornet, had no intention of missing that feast. Nor did Ezra wish to lose those two off-days from his provision ground as his cow was about to calf.
Soon the massa Goodwin was staring upon nothing but shaking negro heads. And the words, ‘No, massa . . . no, massa . . . not me, massa . . . no, sah . . . no, sah,’ were called out to him. Several times, massa Goodwin looked to be about to plead or say something. But no words came to him—he just stood with his mouth agape.
After most had moved out of the mill yard to go about their business, the massa approached Benjamin Brown, who was untying his mule from the fence. The massa Goodwin smiling upon Benjamin said, ‘Oh, my old faithful Benjamin. I knew you would be willing to work. I knew you would not let me down.’
Benjamin, however, then began to tell the massa that no, he could not work over Christmas as he was to assist the minister at his chapel . . . But the massa did not let him finish. According to Benjamin, the massa turned suddenly away from him, ill-tempered and muttering, ‘Ungrateful, indolent wretches!’ or some such bluster, before mounting his horse and riding away.
Fanny, who worked the second gang, claimed that Robert Goodwin, returning to them after Christmas, had his face once more set kindly. When he appeared at her door she enquired of his new pickney
Once all the cane from Virgo had been stripped, she would receive her wage, the massa told her. Now, Fanny had heard too many negroes complain that they had stripped cane for a week, to receive only a day’s pay. What negro upon Friendship plantation or at Unity, or Montpelier, or Windsor Hall, or any of the planted lands upon the island did agree to work by the task? None! She would not work by the task for, like a dog who will be fed once he has caught his own tail, the task might go on forever. And this she told the massa. And so did Anne and Elizabeth, Betsy and Nancy. Soon everyone upon Amity that the massa commanded to work at this task told him ‘no’. No! They will work by the day, and by the day alone as they had done before.
‘Then I require all negroes to work six days. The cane on those pieces can be taken off, stripped, the liquor struck and cooled ready for the hogsheads if everyone works six days,’ was the massa Goodwin’s proposal.
Six days a week! James Richards was sent to the massa to speak for all.
‘Me tell you what, massa,’ was how James began while looking firmly into the massa’s eye, ‘four days we work for you and we work hard.’
‘Four days? Four days a week would not be enough time. With four days working, most of the cane would spoil. It must be six.’
At this point in the talk James could see sparks of anger flickering in the massa’s eye. ‘Cannot you see it must be six?’ the massa went on, ‘Like it always was when the crop was ready to be taken off.’
James, fearing to vex the massa Goodwin further, stopped looking at him within his face.
‘You know that boy,’ the massa went on, ‘you’ve always been a good negro. Six days were worked for the last crop, when I was still your overseer. It must be six days with this. You would all still have a rest day upon Sunday for church or market. But you must work six days. Go and tell them, boy—all of you must work six days.’
James, not wishing to let the irritation he began to feel at the massa talking to him—a skilled carpenter and freeman!—like he was a slave to still be commanded, busied himself by tapping out the spent tobacco from his pipe upon a stone.
‘Are you listening to me?’ the massa suddenly shouted upon him.
‘Yes massa, me does hear you,’ James replied softly, ‘but me did say four days. This crop, it be four days we work.’
‘Six, damn you, six! Do you understand me? Every last one of you will work six days!’
It was then that James determined that he must speak sharp, for was he not free to be as vexed as any white bakkra? ‘We no longer slaves and we work what suits,’ said he. ‘We work what suits.’
Grumbling with a huff and puff while walking around and around like a beast at a mill, was the massa’s reply to those blessed, long-time-coming words, ‘we work what suits’. One hour, James Richards claimed the massa paced within this troubled state. Until, as James’s story told, the massa Goodwin stopped before him, took a sigh so deep the trees did bend within it and said, ‘Then tell me, how will any of you make your obligation for rent or food if you only work four days a week for me?’
Now, James had near three acres of provision land bursting with plantain, cocos, yam and corn. In a little corner section he had some pigeon peas and sweet potato. Two horned cattle he had grazing, and he had recently sold his young steer to the overseer at Somerset Pen for the market price of eighteen pounds.
Elizabeth Millar had five acres under shaddocks, callalloo, peppers and calabash. Mary Ellis made plenty profit from her half acre land of tobacco. While Fanny and Anne Roberts sold the meat from one of their heifers only last week to Molly in the great house kitchen, so she might serve it to the massa boiled with peppers and peas.
Betsy tended the best arrowroot upon the island within her garden. While Giles had money to waste upon gambling marbles, thanks to his three acres of limes, pawpaw, star apples and melon. And Samuel, with his fresh water turtles and salt fish business, was made a big man in town.
All worked their old provision grounds and gardens; for those lands that once they had been forced to tend as slaves so there might be food enough to eat, within the liberty of their freedom now flourished, with produce and profit. Even Wilfred Park made a living from hawking his eggs. While Peggy and Cornet turned a nice penny into plenty of pounds with their mule and cart, wobbling slow and piled high with goods to be carried to market.
James could not recall whether he spoke those words aloud into the massa’s ear about the negroes’ efforts upon their provision grounds, or whether the speech rested voiceless within his mouth. However, he did remember that when the massa said, ‘What a bunch of idle niggers you are,’ the foreboding James felt gripped around his throat to make him choke.
‘I expect you think your masters will just keep providing for you,’ the massa went on, ‘even when you refuse to do any work when it is required. Well, I will not. And if any of you do not make your rent, then you must leave your houses and your lands. So think upon it. Think very carefully upon it. Six days a week I require you all to work. Six days.’
When James, recovering his voice said, ‘No. Four days we work. Me say four days,’ the massa turned sharply upon him, raised his arm and swiped the pipe from out of James’s hand. He then stamped a jig upon the broken pieces of the bowl until it was nothing but dust.
Tilly cried when first she heard that the nice Robert Goodwin was troubled. She had never known this massa to raise his hand, nor even his voice, to her. Whenever he smiled a greeting upon her, he always asked if her old mama was still living. And once he presented her with a green kerchief for no reason other than she was happy to work for him.
Tilly wished to offer herself for six days working, as he wished, but Miss Nancy caught her wrist and twisted it, saying that the massa had struck the carpenter James Richards and so now everyone, including Miss Tilly, will work only four days.
So when a whole cane piece got spoiled after some cattle from the pen trampled in, there was no one about to drive them out, for nearly all were away working upon their grounds. Only Wilfred and Fanny were present. They flapped their arms, hollered, and chased the beasts through the cane to get them gone, but the mischief was done.
Tilly cried once more when she saw the menace in the massa’s eye when he came to the village to scold. He took the hat from his head and dashed it to the floor. Then he roared, ‘Where were the pen-keepers, why were they not with the cattle? Where were the watchmen? Why were the watch-fires all out? And why were no conches blown to summon help? One of my best cane fields was ruined, trampled to pieces, while you were all about your own business. Is that your gratitude to your masters? You care nothing for my interests—you think of no one but yourselves!’
And Tilly would have called out that she will work longer, just to cheer him, but Miss Nancy smothered her mouth, hurled her into her hut, and locked her in there.
Ezra was so surprised when, a few weeks later, he found a grinning massa Goodwin standing within his doorway, that he dropped the calabash he carried, which spilled the dirty water it held over the massa’s boot.
‘Ezra, Ezra, do not worry yourself about that, for I have something important I wish to ask you,’ the massa began before saying, ‘Are you happy, boy?’
Trick—this be a trick, Ezra thought, as the massa waited for his reply. Happy? Come, he had never heard that asked of him in the whole of his days and had no notion of what he should reply.
But the massa carried on, ‘Ezra, listen carefully to me,’ while leaning in close, like he had some secret for Ezra to learn. ‘Why do you not leave your provision lands and work just for me? I will pay you a good wage, better than any one in this parish. Enough for your rent, your food, and fine clothes for any wife y
Ezra recalled that he had replied only, ‘But me ground done feed me dis long time,’ before the massa Goodwin held up his hand to halt Ezra’s speech. He then stepped a pace back to call for Miss July.
And there was Ezra’s proof! For Ezra always believed that the massa Goodwin did not understand negro talk. In walked Miss July, her face set with a house servant’s sneer, like some bad smell was distressing her nose. And the massa said, ‘Please say what you were saying again.’
So Ezra spoke that he did prefer to work upon his own grounds, for labour in the cane fields was hard and long, and yet he got to keep no profit from the crop he planted, fed and cut. But the toil upon his grounds rewarded him with produce that was his to keep. The massa then turned to Miss July who repeated all that Ezra had just spoken, but with a bakkra’s exactness. And the massa’s eyes dimmed as he listened.
Then the massa began to say again what he had already said—about the hammock, the church, the pennies, and the fine clothes for a wife—but with his voice raised. Come, he ended with a cry of, ‘Savvy dat, boy?’ that was so loud it did wake his pickney that was bound across to Miss July’s breast. And as the pickney did holler, the massa did begin to cajole, ‘Well, boy, will you not do as I suggest? Will you? Say you will, and there will be an end to it. Come on, Ezra, say you will work for me alone.’