Daniel, Page 3

  What s the matter, dear one?” she asked me at once.

  “I’ll tell you about it,” I answered, “you and Dad.”

  “Well, take it easy,” said Josh. “No hurry.”

  I began telling them; but when I got as far as the blood and Jeckzor’s back, I stumbled in my words and then I choked and buried my face against Doth’s arm. Neither of them said anything and after a minute or two I was able to go on.

  “It was Henderson you said, wasn’t it?” said Josh, when I’d finished. I nodded and he went on, “I would have known anyway.” “How?” I asked, but for quite a while he didn’t reply.

  At last he said, “There are some white men who hate slaves — hate black people – so much that they’ll contrive almost anything to hurt them. If they haven’t got a reason they’ll find one – make one up. And it comes cheap. ‘Kill a nigger, get another. Kill a horse, you got to buy another.’ It’s like a madness, really. They’ll ignore opportunities to make more money or get easier work. They’ll decline promotion. They prefer to stay where they can go on terrifying and hurting niggers. It’s like taking to drink: I’ve seen it more than once; and the only chance a nigger’s got is somehow to keep away from men like that. One way’s to find and stick close to some white man who values you enough to protect you. I’ve stuck close to Massa Reynolds these ten years and more. I don’t think Henderson would be likely to try anything on with me. And I reckon he’s done himself no good, whipping Jeckzor to death. Jeckzor was a good man. Other field hands respected him and took his advice.”

  “But how can you tell these cruel men?” I asked: for what he’d said had frightened me very much and in my mind’s eye I kept seeing Henderson and his bloody whip.

  “You have to keep your wits about you,” replied Josh. “Ask your friends; and always watch the white men. Those who worship cruelty, they get so you can tell them. That’s what it means to be a slave. Sometimes a white man may free a slave, but it’s seldom.”

  Just at that moment Missus Kathy came in. Josh told her I’d been bullied by Henderson and he thought I ought not to talk about it any more for now; he’d tell her himself later. Then he produced half a ham that Massa Reynolds had given him, and after an unusually good supper I felt a long sight better.

  Next day, I had several messages to run about the village and the plantations. The news of Jeckzor’s death seemed to be known to everyone, and a number of people, who’d heard that I had seen Henderson kill him, stopped me and made me tell them what exactly had happened. It was clear that Jeckzor had been widely regarded, not only by the field labour gangs but also by the slaves working as craftsmen and by Massa Reynolds’s domestic servants. He had been greatly respected as a man who’d been tireless in doing all he could to improve conditions for the slaves. He was the only black man who had sometimes been allowed to speak to Massa Reynolds face-to-face. More than once he’d spoken up for slaves in trouble, usually on account of misunderstandings between themselves and the white overseers. He had even — or so ran the rumour – refused his freedom; and not only that, but at his own request he had remained among the field labourers, saying that he could not leave the people whom he thought of as his closest friends. This, so I learned, was what had really led to his death. Henderson, who had always hated him, had ordered him to get on with his work and stop helping a woman whose labour pains had come on unexpectedly. When he would not leave her, Henderson had beaten him to death. The final moments of this cruelty were what I had seen.

  All over the village I was stopped and made to give my account yet again. It was in vain that I protested I was a messenger on duty for Massa Reynolds. Since I was only a boy facing grown men, there was nothing I could do if they wouldn’t listen. At last I became so agitated and weary that I sat down beside the track, and rested my sweating face between my drawn-up knees.

  I was beginning to recover myself when I was kicked from behind. Struggling to my feet, I found myself facing Henderson. Several passers-by had stopped and were watching us.

  I was about to go on running when Henderson spoke.

  “Stay where you are.”

  “Massa, I running a message —”

  “Shut up!”

  There was a pause as he stared me down. I waited with averted eyes, half-expecting a cut of the whip.

  At length Henderson said, “What’s your name?”

  “Daniel, Massa.”

  “And you’ve been talking about me, haven’t you, Daniel?”

  “Massa, I only done answer questions when folk ask.”

  “And what do you answer, Daniel?”

  I could find no reply.

  “Come on, nigger boy. You’re so good at answering questions, you can answer mine, unless you want to be whipped.”

  “Massa, dey ask me tell ‘em what done happen yesterday in de tobacco field.”

  “And what do you answer?”

  “Massa, I just tell ‘em about – about Jeckzor”

  “And what about Jeckzor?”

  “That you beat him, Massa, and, and —”

  “And what?”

  “He die, Massa.”

  “And you say I killed him, don’t you?”

  “No, Massa, I not say dat.”

  “Oh, that’s interesting, Daniel. You say he died and you don’t say I killed him. What do you say?”

  “Massa, I say he fall down and you tell him get up and he no get up and so you whip him. And den — den he dead.”

  “Lie down, Daniel. No, right down flat, on your belly. Stretch out your arms. I want to see your back.”

  “Massa, I ain’t done nothin’.”

  “Shut up!”

  “Massa, I —”

  But at this moment a third voice spoke, from the other side of the track.

  “Please, Massa, is dat Daniel you got dere?”

  Henderson made no reply. I called out, “Yes, I’se Daniel!”

  “Where you bin, Daniel? I done look for you ebbrywhere. Massa Reynolds, he want see you now. I take so long find you, you best run all de way.”

  It was Moses. I got up, and once more stood facing Henderson, who said nothing, while I waited for him to dismiss me.

  At last, when I was about to ask him, he said, “Why are you standing there? What are you waiting for?”

  “Please, Massa, for you tell me go.”

  Almost before he had snapped his fingers and pointed, I was running with Moses beside me.

  “What for Massa Reynolds want me?” I panted.

  “No say. He shout ‘Boy’ and when I come he tell me fetch you quick.”

  It was seldom indeed that Massa Reynolds talked directly to a black, except his own servants. I had never heard what followed on these rare occasions, but felt sure it could be nothing good. As we got nearer to the big house I could see Frederick, Massa Reynolds’s butler, waiting on the path that led round to the messengers’ shed. As soon as he saw us he called out “You, Dan’l, come quick!”

  I couldn’t run any faster. Half a minute later I fell panting in the sand at his feet. He dragged me up by a hand half round my neck and held me at arm’s length. “You need washing,” was all he said.

  He dragged me across to the pump, held my head down and fairly drenched me. I actually felt better for the cold water, and shook myself half-dry like a dog.

  We were at the threshold of the back door when Reynolds himself appeared, meeting us.

  “Is that the boy, Frederick?”

  “Yes, Massa.”

  As Reynolds looked me up and down I felt ready to faint with fear. My bowels moved and spittle gathered in my mouth.

  He turned on his heel and said to Frederick, “Bring him in here.”

  We crossed the kitchen, went up a short passage and turned into a small, bare room with a stone floor — the first stone floor I had ever seen. The only furniture was a plain wooden chair and a table. Reynolds sat down on the chair and gestured to Frederick to leave us and shut the door.

  I realised I
was trembling. “You’d better hold on to the table,” said Reynolds. “Come on, boy, pull yourself together; I’m not going to hurt you.”

  This at least was some relief. After a short pause he looked me very straight in the eye and said “You were in the tobacco plantation yesterday, weren’t you, Daniel?”

  “Yes, Massa.”

  “Why were you there?”

  “You send me, Massa, tell Massa Henderson you want see him quick.”

  He nodded. “Now tell me what you saw when you found Mr. Henderson; and don’t leave anything out.”

  I’d given my account so often that day that I could repeat it without hesitation. Reynolds perceived this. “How many people have you told that to today?”

  “Massa, lots of people stop me, make me tell ‘em.”

  “You’re a messenger boy, aren’t you? Have you been telling that all over the village?”

  “Massa, people make me tell. I say I’se running a message, no can stop. Dey grab me, say we make you stop, make you tell us about Jeckzor.”

  “And how many times has that happened today?”

  I shook my head. “Not know, Massa; many times.”

  “You’re sure you haven’t been telling a lot of people without being asked?”

  “Certain sure, Massa. I not tell only dey make me.”

  He took out his pipe, filled and lit it, pressing the tobacco down with his thumb. At length he looked up once more.

  “And has Mr. Henderson spoken to you today?”

  “He gwine speak, Massa, but den message come you want me quick, so not speak more.”

  “I see. Well, Daniel, now you listen to me. You’re not to speak of this any more at all, even to Mr. Henderson. If anyone tries to make you, you refuse and tell them that those are your orders from me personally. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Massa.”

  “Right. Get back to work.”

  I ran without looking behind me. Of course the other messenger boys pressed me to tell them what had happened, but when I said that Massa Reynolds had ordered me to say nothing, they let me be.

  As twilight fell we were dismissed and I went home. Tom had got hold of an old pack of cards from somewhere, although neither of us knew the first thing about playing. But when Doth came in she soon put us to rights, and we were all three happily playing Beggar-My-Neighbour when Josh came back. He cast a knowledgeable eye over us, sat down and taught us Blembil, the slaves’ gambling game. Of course we hadn’t any money, but each of us gathered a handful of pebbles, which we found quite as good for winning and losing by candlelight.

  After supper (and a frugal one it was, that evening, I recall), Josh went out for a while. When he came back it was to tell us that he wanted all of us to come for a stroll. It was seldom we all went out together (leaving nothing worth stealing) and we wondered what Josh could have up his sleeve. None of us asked him, however. I was a little surprised that there seemed to be so few people about, especially since it was a beautiful, warm night, with a full moon that made even our tumbledown hovels look less sordid than usual.

  We had sauntered perhaps half a mile when Josh stopped, putting an arm round Missus Kathy’s shoulders. The three of us looked at him enquiringly, but he only smiled, cupping an ear with one hand as though he was listening. Each of us did the same and after a moment we heard the sound from some distance away; the sound of people singing.

  “Let’s go and see what they’re up to,” said Josh. We walked on beside him as he left the track and led the way between two huts and across a patch of rough ground beyond. We came to a little copse, and as soon as we reached the other side we could hear the singing clearly. It was here that I became aware that whoever they might be, they were not singing in English – not even in slaves’ English. The tune – for there was a tune – was full of pauses and strange intervals, like nothing I had ever heard before. Yet it attracted me strangely. I responded to it involuntarily; I wanted it not to cease.

  “Who are they?” asked Missus Kathy in a low voice.

  Instead of answering, Josh took a few steps forward, and as he did so I saw a man coming to meet us through the long grass. A moment more and I knew him for Martin, a neighbour of ours, who worked in the carpentry shop. As the singing ceased, he came up to Josh and greeted him without speaking. He paused, as though weighing his words. Then, hesitantly, he said, “I’m afraid that – that you may not be welcome, Josh. They’ll think you’re too close to Reynolds.”

  “Well, go and ask them,” replied Josh. “We’ll wait here. I shan’t say anything to Reynolds or to any of the white men, and nor will any of my family here.”

  “I believe you,” replied Martin, “but will they?”

  We sat on the ground to wait as he turned and went back as silently as he had come.

  It was some time before he returned, nodded reassuringly to Josh and gestured to us to follow him. His coming and going had made a narrow track through the long grass and this we followed, at length rejoining him at the top of a kind of shallow pit, which sloped away below us in a rough half-circle. In the moonlight I saw, with quite a shock, a crowd of slaves sitting silently on the grass. Evidently these had been the singers. They stared up at us, but none moved or spoke. We sat down where we were and I felt free to look about me.

  At the foot of the slope was a flat space, where the long grass had been trodden down. At its centre was what appeared, by its size and shape, to be a grave, covered over with green branches laid across it from side to side.

  Although the whole place was silent, it seemed full of tension and expectancy. Everyone appeared to be waiting. Beside me, I could feel Doth trembling.

  Suddenly, from among the trees on our left, a harsh voice broke out in clamour, and was answered by a voice from the opposite side. Although plainly a ritualistic question asked and answered in a foreign tongue, to me the mere vehemence seemed savagely minatory. From among the assembled people came cries of dread. As they died away, out of the gloom beyond the flat space came two men and two women, pacing side by side. Between them they carried a rectangular wooden box resembling a coffin. Casting aside the green branches, they lowered it into place in the grave. Then, standing back, all four called, “Jeckzor! Jeckzor!”

  The cry was taken up by the whole crowd and continued until, as though in answer, there bounded out from the undergrowth a naked man, painted from head to foot in spirals of yellow, red and green. As he raised his hand in salutation to the people, they fell silent. He knelt beside the grave, stretched down his arm and, with a cry of disgust, drew out and brandished what everyone saw to be an overseer’s whip. Among curses and cries of hatred, he broke it across his knee in the same moment that a tall, handsome girl appeared near us at the top of the pit, carrying a flaming pine torch. She, too, was naked and painted. Step by step through the staring people, she made her way down to the Painted Man, knelt and handed her torch to him. Amid a storm of elation, he set fire to the two pieces of the broken whip. They must have been smeared with grease or fat, for they flamed until he tossed them aside.

  The four bearers now gathered up the green branches and strewed them into the grave, covering the coffin; and, as the Painted Man embraced his Torch Girl, the celebration became orgiastic. Men and women threw themselves into one another’s arms and sank down on the grass. None showed any shame as they coupled side by side. To them, this was an act of worship, of homage to Jeckzor, a deed of harmony and concord, a witness to God of their indestructible humanity.

  Josh drew Missus Kathy down beside him, clasping her closely. Tom, Doth and I drew a little apart and happily kissed and fondled until Missus Kathy, all smiles, appeared to beckon us to come home.

  None of us spoke until, as we came back into the village Josh broke the silence, saying, “I’m glad for them all. They’ve honoured Jeckzor, and that lifts their spirits and makes them happy — for a time at any rate.”

  “What was the language?” I asked, for my head was still full of the strange sin
ging.

  “It’s an African tribal dialect,” answered Josh. “A lot of the slaves speak it naturally. It came over with them, like their tales about Spider and their pebble games. Those who don’t know it soon pick it up.”

  “And the white men don’t stop it?” I said. “All that ritual, I mean; like burning the whip?”

  “No. They know that it – well, it comforts the slaves, you see, puts a bit of heart into them and can’t really do any harm.”

  “Doesn’t it ever make some of them want to run away?”

  “Oh, no. Not here. There’s nowhere they could run to, you see, they don’t know the first thing about the country. They wouldn’t know which way to go. And they haven’t any money; and no food, either.”

  ‘You mean no one ever runs away?”

  “Very seldom; and if it does happen it’s nearly always some wretched man who’s gone crazy and hardly knows what he’s doing. I’ve known them come back, after starving in the woods for a day or two.”

  “Did you know that meeting was going to be held tonight?”

  “I was fairly sure. But that was why I went out by myself earlier this evening – to make sure it was tonight.”

  The whole happening had left me excited and on edge. In my own mind, I could still hear the barbaric chanting and see the Painted Man bursting out through the bushes; and I could tell that Doth was moved in the same way. Neither she nor I were able to concentrate on our game of cards.

  After a few hands Josh perceived this. When he suggested bed we all felt ready enough. But I was still restless and lay awake for some time. If I had known what the next day held in store, I would probably have copied the poor, crazy slaves and run away to nowhere.

  In the morning, Missus Kathy went off early to the infirmary. She had left us a loaf and half a dozen apples, so we did at least have a few mouthfuls before separating to go to work.

  It turned out to be a slack day for the messengers. The next-to-go was a boy named Matt, and he wasn’t called until late in the morning, just before we got our midday meal. This left me to go next, but it was getting on for halfway through the afternoon before Frederick came into the room and said he wanted someone to go to the tobacconist’s for two dozen clay pipes.