Daniel, Page 2

  And what was our family, over which Josh and Missus Kathy took such a lot of trouble? There were three of us altogether, two boys and a girl. The eldest was Tom. Tom was eight years older than I was. When I came as a baby, he’d been working for Mr. Tosser, the head cooper, for nearly a year past – a place that Josh had found for him, of course. He’d set himself to learn and work hard, and was beginning to be really useful to Mr. Tosser. He was quiet and obedient in his ways and never gave Missus Kathy any trouble. In fact, I sometimes thought that Missus Kathy (who was his real mother) sometimes wished that he would bust out a bit, like some of the other local lads we knew. But Josh, who seemed to be always very much aware that our good situation was poised on a balance, always said that he’d be happy to see Tom go on with Mr. Tosser until one day perhaps he’d become the Master Cooper himself. Tom was always kind to me. We seldom quarrelled.

  The next eldest was Doth. 0 my dear, my darling Doth! How I loved her! Doth was five years older than me, and even at thirteen was a big, strong, handsome girl. Oh, yes, it was easy enough to feel struck on a girl like Doth just by looking at her, and there were plenty who did. But to me she was far, far more than a fine-looking sister, one to be proud of. I’ve told how Missus Kathy saved my life as a new-born baby, because I looked good and she couldn’t bear the thought of leaving me to die in the rubbish on the floor. I believe she must have saved Doth too. Even as a baby, Doth must have looked too good to waste.

  She was everything to me. When I was little she used to wash and dress me and give me my breakfast. And then she’d take me with her to work. She worked in what they called the Make-and-Mend shop, right over the other side of the Slave Village. So the two of us got to pass the time of day with a number of people, coming and going as we did. As I got older, a lot of her friends and. acquaintances became mine as well, and they’d have a word or two for me as well as for her. “Hello, young Dan’l,” they’d say: “Mind and take good care of your big sister, now, won’t you?” and all such teasing things as that. While I was still little I had the notion that I really was looking after her, and I used to answer “Yes, ma’am, let me alone for that.” And then they’d laugh and say to Doth “Getting a big boy now, ain’t he?” or any old nonsense that would do for a laugh or a joke. And I’d sit up comfortable in the Make-and-Mend shop and watch Doth patching and darning, and gossiping away with the other girls.

  Doth used to tell me stories, too, and I’d ask her to tell me this one or that one again, the way little kids do. “Long ago,” she’d say, “we weren’t slaves: nobody was a slave, everybody was free. And in those far-off days there was a girl who kept cows for the king. Now one day,” and so on. I could have listened for ever. “What’s a slave?” I asked once and Doth said “A slave’s someone who can’t do what she wants for herself; ‘cos she belongs to someone else and always has to do what they say.” Of course that didn’t really mean much to me at that age; but one day, going home a bit early, she took me out to the tobacco field and made me have a good look. “See,” she said, “those are slaves. They’ve got to do that all day, because the white men say so.” “And shall I have to do that?” I asked. “Not if I can help it,” said Doth. “I love you too much. You’re my very own Dan’l.” And that was quite enough for me. I believed every word she said. Once, when I was taken badly sick, Doth begged Missus Blatch, who was boss of the Make-and-Mend, to let her off for two or three days so she could look after me. Well, you see, Missus Blatch knew me, and she told Doth to take real good care and make me better. I believe Doth saved my life that time. I remember once I woke in the middle of the night, taken awful bad, and she was awake and holding me in her arms.

  Our white masters, Massa Reynolds and his two sons – of course I hardly ever saw them – I reckon they weren’t too terrible hard on us, as masters went in those days. What the masters wanted was the crops — the tobacco and the rest. That was where their money came from. The crops were desperately hard work and the field hands were driven to it with whips by the white overseers. A lot of field hands, both men and women, broke down and died; but field work was never allowed to stop or fall behind. Other slaves were found — even skilled workers pulled out of the shops – and had to work in the gangs until they dropped.

  A lot of estates favoured Creoles and Mulattoes – thought they were quicker to learn than us blacks – but Massa Reynolds didn’t like them, except he used them in the big house, for domestic servants. What I heard was that he didn’t want a third class between masters and slaves. As far as he was concerned, all black people were slaves and all white people were free. But as the estate became bigger, the number of slaves to work it had to grow and the new lots usually included a fair number of Creoles, whether Massa Reynolds liked it or not. The only alternative was slaves off the ships, and as I’ve said, that wouldn’t have done for us.

  I remember how I first realised that Creoles were different. A boy I knew had died and was to be buried. I had permission to go. Only white men had marked graves. Slaves were buried in pits, whether it was one or two or however many there might be, and the grass grew over them. No memorials were allowed. Slaves couldn’t have paid for them anyway. The day I went, there were several to be buried, and one or two were Creoles. Of course, their families were there and while the burial was taking place they began making trouble, saying their people ought to have proper, individual graves. All that happened was that one of the white overseers who was there told them to be quiet or he’d take his whip to them. They obeyed him, but as I watched them, I felt that that wasn’t going to be the end of it. Still, I never heard whether anything happened later.

  That was how I came to meet Reverend Foster — at a burial. Doth went to this burial; a girl who’d been a friend of hers was to be buried, and I went with her. When we got there the first person we saw was this clean-shaven white man — dressed all in dark clothes — a stranger to us — standing with Massa Reynolds’s son William. As we passed close by, this stranger suddenly took a step forward and put his arm round my neck. He began asking me questions; my name, how old I was, what work I did and so on. And then he asked me whether I knew about Jesus. I had no idea what he meant and I said “No, sir.” “Well, you ought to,” he says, but then William stepped out and spoke to him, and he let it go at that.

  Thanks chiefly to Doth, to Missus Kathy and Josh, I had a happier childhood than most slave children. This was partly because I was fed better than most of the slave children on the estate, who had to keep going on the ever-lasting maize, black bread and potatoes which were doled out to their families; but also because, unconsciously, I knew that I was loved by Doth and Missus Kathy. They gave me affection and attention. They talked to me. What I felt really mattered to them. Missus Kathy’s “Don’t do dat, Dan’l” was a long way better than being ignored; and Doth – well, I’ve told you how I felt about Doth.

  Apart from the kids round about that I played with – when I had any time to play, that is – there were two people I knew. One was the white clergyman, Reverend Foster, as I was told to call him. Reverend Foster was a visitor – a guest of the Reynolds family – and I don’t know how I knew, but I did, that he was only staying for a time; one day he’d be leaving. Massa Reynolds had told him that he was free to go about and talk to the slaves; he wanted them to become Christians — that was his religion, the religion of the white folks. I realise now, although of course I couldn’t then, that Massa Reynolds didn’t mind any of his slaves becoming Christians because it taught them that God wanted them to obey their masters and not to resent them or make any trouble. But as I’ve learned since, Massa Reynolds wasn’t so keen on another Christian idea, that all folk are equal in the sight of God. Reverend Foster wasn’t to teach them that: he only had to teach them that God loved all men, black and white, and that if they worked well and gave no trouble, God would take them to heaven when they died.

  Reverend Foster took a liking to me. He used to come to our abode in the evenings and ask Missus K
athy’s permission to take me for a walk, and of course she couldn’t say No because he was a white man. We used to walk down to the stream or to the tobacco plantation and while we were walking he used to talk to me about Jesus Christ: and I used to listen and say everything I could to please him because he was a white man and used to give me candy. Besides, talking with him was better than working, or helping Missus Kathy to sweep the floor or chop the wood. “You’re a real, true little Christian, aren’t you?” Reverend Foster used to say, and I’d answer “Yes, sir. I’m a true follower of Jesus”; or anything that I thought would please him and keep me away from work a bit longer.

  For I had work now, real work like other slaves. At the time I’m speaking of, I was nine and had been at work since I was seven. (It should have been six, but I didn’t get ordered to work at six, and of course I didn’t ask about it.) It wasn’t hard work for a child slave. Of course it was Josh who had got me the job, and he told me to be sure and do it well if I wanted to keep it. If I did it badly it would be only too easy to drop me.

  The job was Messenger Boy. It often happened in the course of the day’s work that Massa Reynolds or his sons, or any of the three white overseers would need to send a message across the estate, either to one another or to a black boss of the tinkers or the blacksmiths or some such. Now there wasn’t a black on the whole estate who could read or write, so written messages were no good, except from one white man to another. Besides, a lot of the time the message would just be “Come here, So-and-So, I want to talk to you.” And this was where the messenger boys came in.

  Every morning, as soon as work began on the estate, there would be seven or eight of us messenger boys ready and waiting in a particular shed back of the big house: and if one of the masters needed to send a message, he’d shout “Boy!” and then the one of us whose turn it was would run to him — and damn’ fast, too. There was seldom a written message, and the boy had to learn the message by heart and tell it to the person at the other end. It sounds easy enough, but there could be complications. The person might not be where you’d been told to go, and you’d have to find him, or sometimes the message made no sense to him, because things had altered and weren’t what the white man thought they were; and so on.

  A messenger boy had to be a good runner and someone who had his wits about him; like, whether he’d do his best to find the recipient, wherever he might have got to, or whether it would be better to go back and say he couldn’t be found. Or he might have to take another message back in reply. One way and another, there was quite a lot to learn.

  And there could be trouble, like I’ll tell you now. I told you I knew two people. The second was a young man called Flikka. I suppose Flikka might have been about nineteen. He had red hair – well, sort of tawny – the only person on the estate who had; and he was cross-eyed, and had a birth mark on his right cheek. He never seemed to have any work to do, but wandered about the place as he chose. Nobody liked him; at least, he never seemed to have any friends. What I think now is that he was the bastard son of some white man and a black girl on another estate, and they’d dumped him on our estate and forgotten him.

  Flikka took a dislike to me; I’ve no idea why. But whenever he saw me he had a spiteful word or, worse than that, he tried to do me harm. “Daniel,” he’d say, “why don’t you wash your goddamn face?” or “Daniel, everybody knows your mother works in the infirmary so she can steal things from sick people too weak to stop her.”

  Once he stopped me when I was running a message and asked me who it was for. I told him “Mr. Henderson”, one of the overseers. “Well, you’re going the wrong way,” he said. “He’s over on the tobacco; I’ve just seen him.” But when I got round to the tobacco, Mr. Henderson wasn’t there and I finally found him where I’d first been told. I was lucky not to get into trouble. The next time I ran into Flikka, I told him he’d misled me and I reckoned he’d done it purposely. “Oh, I’m always ready to oblige you,” he said. “I’ll knock you down if you like.”

  Another time I was running together with another of the boys, a lad called Moses who was a bit older than me. We met Flikka and for once he let me alone. When we’d passed him, Moses turned round and spat. “I’d like to strangle that swine,” he said. “Well, I’d gladly help you,” I answered. “I hate him. I wonder why he never seems to have any work to do.” “Why,” says Moses, “don’ you know what he do?” I said I’d no idea. “The white men on other estates round here,” he says. “He gets girls for dem — black girls. He make deal with a white man and then he bring him girl, one of ours. If she no want to go, he threaten her, frightens her. He done get paid, but I don’ think the girl get a thing.” “But where does he take them?” I asked. “Up on hill over dere,” says Moses, pointing. “He no want Massa Reynolds or his sons to know, you see. They’d soon put stop on him and his white customers; they no want girls to be seen doin’ it on their premises. Dere’s few folk go up hill.” Our ways parted just after that and I soon forgot what Moses had told me.

  It was some time after that, that I happened to run into something I’d give anything to forget; something that’s haunted me all my life. It was a blazing hot afternoon, and I was lying half asleep in the messengers’ shed, when I heard Massa Reynolds shout “Boy!” It was my turn and Moses got me on my feet double-quick. I ran to Massa Reynolds, who was standing by the outside door, tapping his foot with impatience. Before I’d even reached him he called out “You, Daniel! Do you know where Mr. Henderson’s at?” I answered, “No, Massa, but I’ll find him real quick.” “Good boy!” he said. “Well, you run and tell him I want to see him here right this minute.”

  Before I’d even run out of his sight I was pouring with sweat. When I got as far as the Carpenters’ shop they were working on some sort of big trestle they’d dragged out into the open, and they weren’t best pleased when I asked them to move it a fraction so’s I could get by. “Who are you looking for now?” asked the carpenter Boss. “Message for Massa Henderson from Massa Reynolds,” I said, and at that the Boss picked me up bodily and threw me over the trestle. I grazed my knees, but I got up and ran.

  I crossed the stream and then I saw a crowd of slaves and Mr. Henderson in the middle of them. You could always pick him out, even at a distance, because he was very tall. I ran up to them, calling “Massa Henderson, sir!” He turned round, and I saw he had his leather whip in his hand. On the ground in front of him was a slave, a big man, lying on his face. He looked to be unconscious and his bare back was covered with great, bloody weals, a terrible sight.

  “What do you want, boy?” asked Henderson. I told him the message and he pushed me aside before turning back to the slave. He hit him across the back and shouted, “Will you get up, you dirty nigger bastard?”

  The slave never moved. The other field hands were gathered round, all bare to the waist, sweating. There were two or three women kneeling in front, crying bitterly and trying to help the slave as best they could. “Oh, Jeckzor, Jeckzor” one of them kept crying. “Oh, please, Massa” (to Henderson) “let us help him.” “No way, no damn’ way,” says Henderson. But then he seemed to have second thoughts. “I’m going to see Massa Reynolds,” he says to them. “Get back to work, all of you. If I see anyone not working when I get back, they’ll be whipped as bad as him.” And with that he turned and stalked off the way I’d come, without looking to see whether they were going back to work or not.

  They weren’t going back. The girl who’d been calling to Jeckzor flung herself down beside him, put her ear to his mouth and listened. Then she looked up at the others and cried out in some African tongue. They all began moaning, and jabbering away to one another in the same language. One of the men knelt down and listened the way the girl had, but evidently he too could tell the man wasn’t breathing.

  The girl looked at me and pointed to the sun. Then she shut her eyes and shook her head. One of the men said to me in English “Massa Henderson always hate Jeckzor. Jeckzor big man with us, always try
help us. Massa Henderson want him dead; whip him, kill him.” They all nodded and murmured. A lot of the men were crying now, same as the girls.

  Then two-three of them got down and lifted Jeckzor up onto their shoulders. I couldn’t bear to look at his back, he’d been whipped so dreadfully; just a great mass of blood and those terrible weals all across it. You couldn’t see it had ever been a man’s back.

  The man who’d spoken to me pointed to the shed under the trees, the shed where they kept the tools and all the other tackle for the tobacco: and they all set off, men and women together, and a great crowd of flies buzzing over them as they went.

  I ran all the way back to the messenger room. The carpenters had left the path clear by now, but I knew I’d lost time and I reckoned I might have been missed. But I hadn’t. Moses was still waiting, next boy to go, and there were two or three others. I lay down to rest, but as often as I shut my eyes I saw Jeckzor – Jeckzor’s back — and I’d start up again and clutch at the water-pot or the bolt for the shutters — anything that was real, anything that could tell me I wasn’t in that tobacco-field.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Moses. “Something troublin’ you? Come on, tell me. It’ll help to put you right.”

  I started to tell him, but then I couldn’t go on. I kept hearing the women crying. Finally Moses, good friend as he was, went up to the captain and told him I’d been taken bad with the sun and could he walk me home. When we got there, Missus Kathy was still out at the infirmary, and only Tom was in. Moses told him I’d had some sort of a bad shock and then he went back. I lay down on the bed and Tom held my hand. It must have been best part of an hour before Josh came in. Tom told him as much as he knew and Josh took over sitting beside me.

  It was reassuring to have Josh there. He didn’t ask me what the trouble was, and he didn’t show the least impatience. He just held my hand and from time to time he gave me some water. It was warm, of course, but I kept on sipping it, just to please him, really. After what seemed a long time, Doth came in. As soon as I saw her I began to feel better.