Sugar Money Read online

  ‘Indeed.’ Cléophas reached into the folds of his cassock and extracted a document. ‘This is a Power of Attorney from our Order, drawn up by the notary, Monsieur Emerigon, in the presence of our Governor, the Comte d’Ennery, and signed both by him and by our very own Reverend Superior, Père Lefébure, and this permission includes, of course, the approval of the English Governor of Grenada.’

  He handed the parchment to Emile, who held it up to the light. A pang seize my heart as I watched him squint at that page. My brother was no kind of fool – no indeed, not one pound of him. But that paper might as well have been bum-fodder for all the sense he would make of it since he was unable to sign his own name. Emile would have cut off his own thumb for a chance to learn his ABC, whereas I could spell out a few simple word, though – for all practical purpose – I was illiterate and only educated myself, little by little, in later years.

  The manuscript looked hard to read, close-writ in a backward-sloping scrawl, and before I could cipher a single word Cléophas had retrieve the thing.

  ‘I’ll return this to you when you leave,’ said he, as the document vanish within the folds of his linen. That was some magical robe he had on him: a Power of Attorney in there now and a rabbit foot – and what else besides his jiggumbobs – a bag of many eggs? A silken handkerchief? A turtle dove?

  ‘You should be aware,’ he continued. ‘The new physician at the hospital in Grenada – Mr Bryant, an Englishman – contests our ownership of the Negroes and hopes to retain them for himself. Both he and the new overseer at the plantation are of the same mind. They would keep the Negroes if they could – our Negroes, Negroes that were either bought or raised by us, les Frères de la Charité. It matters not to them what may be right, or what the English Governor may think, or the Comte d’Ennery. This is the one slight impediment we face in this matter.’

  Emile turn his head a fraction. His gaze met mine then he resume looking at the floor. The room lay mortal still, so quiet I could hear a flame gutter in one of the lamp. Cléophas scrutinised us with his little grey eyes, first me, then my brother. He appear to weigh something in his mind before he continue.

  ‘Nevertheless, there is nothing that cannot be overcome now that we have this Power of Attorney. Be very careful with it.’

  My brother breathed out hard through his nose: not quite a sigh, but similar. Cléophas studied him and presently spoke again, his voice stern.

  ‘We chose you, Emile, because you and Lucien are best suited to succeed in an enterprise of this sort. You’re familiar with Grenada and the town and since you know the hospital Negroes they ought to trust you. You’ve been hired back from the Dominican Fathers until such time as you return with the slaves.’ Here, he fixed his eye on me. ‘I imagine a trip to Fort Royal will please you, my son.’

  No doubt in my mind that our old confreres would be glad to quit Grenada. Our French masters treated us bad enough but we all had heard stories about the English and what fiends they could be: they would hang you out to dry soon as look at you or squeeze you, bones and all, through a cane press. Most certainly, the hospital slaves would greet us as saviours and I had a mighty fancy to the notion of myself in such a role. Last time our Fort Royal compeers had seen me I was but a sprat of six or seven. Whereas now – in my triumphant return – I considered myself well nigh a man and though I might not part the waves and lead them toward the land of Canaan, I could see myself chaperone them to La Matinik, safe and easy, like eating pastry. In sum, I was noways cast down about the prospect of our allotted task, and would have said as much except the ‘Talking Machine’ had already turn back to my brother, palavering on again.

  ‘Who knows? It is not impossible, Emile, that Père Lefébure might see fit to grant you your freedom, if you succeed. At the very least – with the increase in sugar money once these Negroes are brought to us – we may, in time, be able to buy you back from the Dominicans. You could set up quarters with Céleste here and resume tending our vegetables – as I’m told you did before you became so morose and impudent. Your talent in the garden is missed, you know. None of your successors has shown much aptitude. Father Damascene still goes into raptures over your avocato pears. I daresay you and Céleste might even grow old here together. To my mind, this venture will be a blessing for all of us. So, there you have it.’

  All through this soft sawder my brother stood with head bent, his lips down-turned. It would have been unwise to pay much heed to these allusions to freedom. Howsomever, Emile did not even seem cheered at the prospect of a reunion with Céleste. Once upon a time, back in Grenada, he had been a hearty soul with a smile for everyone and such a natural ability for growing plants he could coax cassava from a rock. Originally, we thought he had been sent to Martinique for just a few week but when those week turn to month I’m told he began to lose interest in the earth and all that grew there. By the time I arrived in St Pierre a year later he was a change character, stubborn and sulky. The Martiniquan friars suffered him somewhile longer until they tired of his insolence and sold him on to the Dominican monks, just prior to the English invasion. I half surmise that parting from Céleste was what had caused him to languish in the first place.

  Cléophas folded his arms. Oh, he was a weary-o!

  ‘Now then, Emile,’ said he. ‘You cannot refuse to carry out your duty.’

  My brother said nothing. His fists clench, unclench and clench again. In silence, I willed him to use them on the friar – for that would be a sight to see – then told myself not to be a fool, and prayed he would do no such thing.

  ‘Well, my son,’ the old man persisted. ‘What do you have to tell me, hmm?’

  Poor Emile look sick as a poison dog. When he spoke, his voice sounded tight and dull.

  ‘Father, I must do what you ask.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Cléophas. ‘The matter is settled.’

  My brother looked up and stare the old man in the eye.

  ‘Except one thing,’ said he. ‘Please you, Father, I’ll go alone. No use for this boy here. He will only dilly and dally and cause trouble.’

  His choice of words – ‘this boy’ – stung me to the core but I should have expected as much. Trying to get me left behind, no doubt; always treating me like a baby. For fear that I would miss my chance to act the big don for our Fort Royal compeers, I open my mouth to object but Cléophas had already clicked his tongue in disapproval.

  ‘Stuff and nonsense. You’ll need him.’

  ‘Beg your pardon, Father,’ Emile said. ‘But this is a child. What is he – ten years old? He’ll ruin everything. He is too young and silly.’

  My cheeks grew so hot they burned.

  ‘Cho! Father, I’m not ten years old, I’m—’

  Cléophas lifted one hand to silence me.

  ‘Be sensible,’ he told Emile. ‘We thought you would welcome this opportunity to spend time with your brother.’

  Emile scowled at me. We sucked our teeth, same-time, me thinking: ‘Ten years old. I’ll give you ten years old.’

  Meanwhile, Cléophas regarded us with a kind of detach amusement like he might survey the twitching of two sand-flea on the shore. I had no desire to give him the pleasure of observing us quarrel and Emile must have thought the same for he fell silent, though his eyes were all a-blaze. He look taut as a yellow viper all set to strike; you would not wish to encounter him in the forest.

  Cléophas drew him aside for a quiet word.

  ‘Listen, my son. Whatever language you boys jabber on in is incomprehensible, even to most Frenchmen. What would happen if you were stopped by an Englishman or one of their redcoats, and questioned? You would have difficulty being understood. But Lucien here can talk to them. None of them has any command of French, believe you me, and an interpreter is never to hand, as I learned when I was there, in August.’

  Here, he step back and raised his voice to include me.

  ‘By the by, if such an eventuality did occur – say, if, upon arrival, you’re stopped by sold
iers and questioned – perhaps it would be better to avoid mention of your purpose in Grenada, if possible. The less said, the better. Christmas is almost upon us. I shall give you each a ticket, stating in writing that you are in Grenada to run various errands for me. If I were you – just in case they question you more closely – I might dream up some other story to explain your presence on the island. For instance, Lucien can tell them that you’re delivering medicinal plants to Monsieur Maillard and that you must prolong your stay on the island for a few days in order to … to …’

  Since an idea had already formed in my mind, I spoke up:

  ‘Please you, sir, I’ll say that, since it’s Christmas, our masters let us return to the island to visit the grave of our own dead papa.’

  ‘You see?’ said Cléophas to Emile. ‘Not silly.’

  My brother simply gave me a look of disgust.

  Cléophas turn back to me.

  ‘Your father was some … settler, no doubt – now deceased.’

  ‘He is gone kickeraboo,’ said I. ‘Quite so, he is, mon père, most certainly.’

  Cléophas nodded.

  ‘At any rate, it will probably take more than one of you to manage all that must be done over there. You will have to speak to the field hands and to the hospital Negroes, first of all, and one or two of the nurses have been hired out – at least they were a few months ago – so you’ll have to track them down and instruct them on how to get from wherever they are to the point of embarkation. Believe me, I have been thinking long and hard about this venture, and how it might be achieved.’

  Then he proceeded to jaw on so long I reckoned we might be there until the crack of doom. Most of his remarks he address to my brother, who kept feeding him judicious questions. A fine pair they made, old Socrates and Plato; paid me as much heed as they might a lizard, and I leave you to fancy if I soon grew tired of that or not. The old man droned on and on. I won’t record his orations here; besides, I was only half listening, caught up in imagining my triumphant return to Grenada. The long and short of it, a skipper and vessel had already been hired and my brother and I were to set sail on the morrow.

  Chapter Four

  By the time we quitted the morgue, dusk had crept up the foothills of Mont Pelée, though her summit glowed bright jade in the sun. I had presume that Emile might walk with me back to the pasture to talk but he began to head toward the main gate so fast I was oblige to call out to him before he vanished.

  ‘Emile!’

  He turn to look at me, all the while backing off beneath the trees.

  ‘What is it, little britches?’

  A few question came to mind but none seemed worth asking in that instant. Besides, it pained me, the sight of him all hotfoot in retreat, as if I were some kind of leper. Scarce the blink of an eye together and already our great reunion gone sour.

  Perhaps Emile read my mind for he came to a stop, saying:

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing. Just – a person might – well, it might be good to talk with you is all.’

  Somesuch nonsense came out of my mouth and I could have kick myself all around the hospital for sounding like a fliperous coquette.

  ‘Child, I would like nothing more,’ said he. ‘But we have no time for chit-chat.’

  Contrary as a hog. Of course, from birth, we had been at the beck and call of others – my brother slaving first for les Frères and then, after they sold him, for those Dominicans; but also, for that matter, any Béké white colonial in the islands. Back in those days, since Emile could not be master of his destiny I suppute he like to hold sway over the few paltry element that lay within his control. Thus, he tended to avoid any other slave dictating his affairs, even in a matter so slight as when he might be engage in conversation. If ever you ask to speak to him he would imply – though he would gladly talk with you – he had far too many demands on his time; he a busy-busy man, a regular Bashaw: such would be the implication. Well, I could have cuffed him right where he stood for he was nothing but a stubborn, miserable slave, same as me. However, I knew better than to provoke him and so came at it sideway like a crab.

  ‘Will you sleep here tonight in the cells?’

  ‘Mm-hmm,’ he said, clearly thinking about something else. Then he asked: ‘Tell me, do you remember your birdcall signal?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Let me hear them. You might be out of practice. Not too loud now.’

  I cup my hands to my mouth, then press my fingers to my nose and gave three short descending hoots, one upon the other. The untrained ear might mistake those sounds for a dove but we knew otherwise. Compare to a real bird, the calls were a fraction short and came too express, one upon the other. This was one of the signal we used on the hospital estates to attract attention in secret, though some slave were disincline to whistle or hoot after dark for fear of rousing spirits. Emile himself had taught me the calls when I was but a sprout.

  ‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘Now the pigeon.’

  Whereas a dove hoot meant simply ‘Here I am’ or ‘All clear’ or ‘I’m coming’, the pigeon call constituted a warning, especially at night when most of those bird would be tucked up in their nest. A pigeon was more difficult to mimic than a dove.

  I put my tongue to the roof of my mouth and gave a few tentative coo. My brother frowned.

  ‘Again,’ he said. ‘Not so loud.’

  I tried once more. He shook his head.

  ‘You need practice. Go on now, back to pasture. Try and get it better out there where there’s nobody around.’

  ‘Perhaps we can talk later then,’ I said, as he turn to leave. ‘See you at the cells?’

  He spread his hands, full of regret, as though even this would be impossible; I may as well have ask for an audience with the Pope in Rome.

  ‘I have some errand to run in town,’ he said. ‘I may be late. But we have abundant time for talking tomorrow, on board.’

  ‘Oh,’ says I, and gave a sniff. ‘You need a ship to get to Grenada, do you?’

  He frowned.

  ‘Of course.’

  Quick-sharp, I toss back at him: ‘And here am I, expecting you to walk there upon the water.’

  My intention, to take him down a peg, but he only gave me a familiar look of fond despair.

  ‘Listen, Lucien. This is no adventure, nor a child game. Sometimes, I wonder if you still have the sense you came born with.’

  And so saying he sped off toward the gates. Just as well for him, since I was blazing with such a wrath I could have punch the head off a hammer.

  Chapter Five

  On the following day, the tiny whistling-frog (or ’ti gounouys) cease their overnight song and the sudden silence woke me as usual, just before first bell. Emile had return so late the previous night I had not seen him, hide nor whisker. I doubt he had a girl in town; no woman interested him save Céleste. First, I check the row of cells in search of him then ran to the main building. Young Father Boniface was in one of the empty sick room, sitting up and darning bandages, despite his belly complaint. Once, he had been a swarthy fellow but for weeks now his skin had taken a greyish pallor. When he saw me at the threshold, he pointed to a bowl of vomit at his bedside and said:

  ‘No blood this time, Lucien. We shall gain the whip-hand yet.’

  But he shook his head when I asked if he had seen my brother.

  I found our superior, Père Lefébure, in the refectory, his cheeks already florid and sweating, his gooseberry-coloured eyes somewise bloodshot. He glanced up from his plans of the new distillery to inform me that my brother and Cléophas had already left for town. No doubt they had some business of Olympian importance to attend to down there. As a mere mortal, I was under instruction to join them at the Sugar Landing once I had shown the new boy, Descartes, how to keep the livestock from perishing in my absence.

  Lefébure peered into his ink well.

  ‘Before you go, take a breakfast to Damascene,’ he said. ‘There’s a good bo
y.’

  Old Father Damascene lay in bed, awake, his face fish-white. The room smell like a new-fill chamber pot. As I cross the threshold to prop open the jalousie, he fail to recognise me and call me ‘Maman’. Then he look shame-faced and murmured:

  ‘Bonjour, mon fils.’

  ‘Bonjour, mon père. Il fait beau aujourd’hui, non?’

  I found it no hardship to speak a little of la langue française with the Good Father, just the two of us. He had shown me naught but kindness and had save my skin by bringing me to Martinique. I helped him to his chair, checking his nightshirt en route but – thanks be to great Jehosaphat – he had not soiled himself.

  The only food left to eat that morning was some corossol fruit. I passed him a slice and set his coffee in front of him.

  ‘Pah!’ he said, with one glance at the pale liquid in the bowl.

  But before he could make a whole simmy-dimmy about water-down coffee, I distracted him.

  ‘Now then, Father. Me and Emile are to – you remember Emile, Father?’

  ‘Ah, what a gardener. He was a good boy – before.’

  ‘Father, he still is, mostly. Do you know where we are to go, me and him?’

  His eyes grew wide.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Please you, Father, back to Grenada. Remember: where I first saw you, when you came there to the hospital – when Father Prudence decease this world?’

  Damascene looked appalled.

  ‘Prudence is dead?’

  ‘Oui, mon père. Remember? He died years agone.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ says he, but he looked wily and I doubt he did recall, for true.

  ‘We sail this very morning, Father, because we have to—’

  ‘Who is sending you? Cléophas?’

  ‘Oui, mon père.’

  ‘That speck of shit.’ He bang his fist on the table. ‘I told him not to pursue this reckless venture. Confound him.’ He grab my hand. ‘Don’t go, my son. Stay here!’