Authors: Caryl Phillips
After this dramatic exercise I certainly did not wish immediately to retire, so I instructed Stella to fetch the chessmen from the central hall, which she did reluctantly, dragging her fatigue behind her. I continued in my pointless quest to acquaint her with this game, but alas she has neither the intelligence even dimly to comprehend the rules, nor the guile even to pretend to possess some notion of its strategies. So time drifted on until poor Stella could no longer feign interest, and eventually she left me exhausted to my tropical night, the bland whisperings of the wind, and the sounds of distant thunder. I feared a storm was due to break, and so in this state of trepidation I passed a restless and wearisome night. However, when morning arrived, and
Master Sol
rose in the east flaunting his majestic splendour, my heart swelled with gratitude towards God who had offered His merciful protection. Through the open window of my chamber poured a warm flood of sunshine chequering the floor. A sweet breeze, as gentle as an infant's breath, soothed me with its cooling air. This was truly a divine display of God's blessing, and I now felt able to relax and submit to the heavenly convenience of peaceful sleep.
Today I was in a complimentary strain and inclined to be a little more jocose than is common. I summoned Mr Rogers in order than I might learn more about this obeah. I wished also to have a decent companion in the absence of Mr Brown, and one with whom I might converse without having to endure the enervating yawn and drawl of the negro accent. We lunched on a light but festive board whose chief delight were fruits of every description, including the succulent pine-apple, the watery melon, the sweet-smelling guava, and the luscious jelly coconut. For those of us who are inclined to take on
more flesh than is considered graceful, it proved something of a trial, though pleasantly so. Soon after our conclusion the board was cleared, though a little light wine sparkled in the crystal chalice. I suggested that we two retire to the piazza, where I sported an umbrella to prevent the sun from scorching my head. I drew Mr Rogers's attention to the distant idling skiffs of the fishermen dancing upon the buoyant blue waters, the dark boatmen mastering the
finny race
in silence, but Mr Rogers seemed entirely uninterested in my observations. Really, there is little I can relate of our conversation, for Mr Rogers is truly a most reticent and private man. The longer he lingered, the more he gave me confirmation of Mr McDonald's deceit, when he attempted to persuade me that Mr Rogers had secret designs upon my person. I doubt very much if Mr Rogers has ever had such designs, secret or otherwise, upon any woman in his life. I am tempted to describe him as a fish out of water, but this would not be altogether accurate, for it would be difficult to imagine waters in which Mr Rogers might comfortably swim. I enquired after a small monument for Isabella, and he replied casually that he would investigate. Perhaps, he suggested, a plaque in the cemetery, but he declared in a fashion slightly less indifferent that now my health was restored, and my stay extended, I must make an effort to come and visit his church of St George's in the heart of Baytown. Such monuments as the one I was suggesting for Isabella, he said, were usually paid for by public subscription, for the populace would know the person concerned, but in the case of my beloved Isabella, Mr Rogers was at pains to instruct me that the expense would be mine alone.
As for information about obeah, he was hardly helpful, seemingly knowing less than I had already discovered. To his mind it was simply a dark African mystery, and mere was little more to say on the matter. It appeared to be the devil's work, in direct opposition to the heavenly goals towards which Mr Rogers had set his face. These were divinely inspired reformation
and holy absolution for the planters, overseers, book-keepers and merchants, all of whom he saw as tainted creatures in this tropical paradise abundant in Edenic temptations. I stifled yawn after yawn as I endured this most tedious of afternoons. On the question of slavery (I was thinking now of my pamphlet and lecture tour) Mr Rogers was predictably dull. After all, I wished to go beyond the commonplace memoirs of previous travellers, who, finding nought worthy of record but the most bizarre features of this tropical life, settle complacently to offer their dumb and helpless audience little more than flimsy defences of the system. My purpose being more ambitious, the pious opinions of Mr Rogers proved inconsequential to me.
It was, he claimed, the job of the white man to look after the children in his care, and the white man would do so in a better manner if he were closer to God. It was not the job of the Church to interfere in politics or economics. As to the education of slaves in matters spiritual, there were some missionaries who had attempted such a course, but Mr Rogers was nervous that this might encourage over-bold negro conduct, even insurrection. These spiritually educated negroes would suddenly require themselves to be addressed as Paul, and John, even Jesus, and view themselves as equal with the white man in the eyes of the Lord. My companion of the cloth went further, and insisted that nothing but the inflexible maintenance of the moral and spiritual superiority of the whites could possibly keep in subjection the physical superiority of the blacks. He insisted that should the negroes become as well-informed as the whites, and should thoughts be implanted, the like of which have never before visited their wool-thatched brains, then the combined forces of the militia and the navy would not be able to keep in check rebellion against their
natural
condition of servitude. Clearly Mr Rogers was a man who would have been happier in an earlier and less enlightened century, for according to him heathenism and devilry seemed destined to sit more firmly upon their black shoulders than the
sins of Eden upon the shoulders of white men, and herein lay the true length of his submission.
When Mr Rogers again visited the subject of obeah, this time in fuller detail, he once more informed me that this practice was nothing less than a primitive belief in witchcraft which operated upon the negroes to produce death. He claimed that there was not a single West Indian estate where one or more professors of this obeah do not practise their heathen craft, but he maintained that it is very difficult for the white man to identify these devilish emissaries. However, our churchman soon grew weary of this obeah and returned again to his now familiar sermon. He saved his greatest ire for those injudicious missionary preachers who admitted a few black slaves to sit by night under their roofs and receive the Methodist gospel. From a small beginning this society appears to be spreading far and wide, boasting a vast increase of converts to its
Ebeneezer Chapel.
According to Mr Rogers, these Methodists admit every variety of shade from the ruddy son of the fair fields of England, to the
jettiest
offspring of Africa's black jungles. And so Mr Rogers continued with his homily until I longed for the company of Stella, with or without her chessmen.
My mind began to drift to heavier matters, for on this same day a letter had arrived from England, the first I have received since my sojourn began. Clearly, Father had written in some haste, assuming that I would soon be preparing for my return. The nature of his anxiety concerns Mr Wilson, from whom it appears he has received a letter in which Mr Wilson claims that mutiny has occurred and he has been forcibly ousted and banished to a neighbouring island. What Father would like me to acquire is a statement of explanation from Mr Brown, whose continued position at the head of the plantation does not appear to grate unduly on Father's sensibilities. It seems that he simply desires to give audience to Mr Brown's version of events before deciding on a course of action. There was little else in the short communiqué, aside from his wishing me a safe
and speedy return to England. No news of England. None of Mr Thomas Lockwood. None of himself, although one might imagine there to be little of interest to Father beyond his new gambling debts. As to my oft-delivered plea that he make the effort to come and visit his own estate, Father studiously avoids any mention of this in his letter, presumably feeling that my presence here has absolved him of this responsibility. I doubt if he has revised his opinions on this subject, but I will raise these questions anew with him when we meet on common soil, and try to allay his old fears that he would never survive the climate and would ultimately expire in tropical America. By this time he will, of course, have received my letters, all of which make passing reference, among other topics, to his continued and wilful absenteeism.
This evening Mr Brown finally returned after six days' absence on our smaller sister-island's soil. He had little to say, for he seemed exhausted and could stomach barely more than a few mouthfuls of his dinner. Clearly his adjudication had proved long and tiresome, but I cared not to enquire after the details. I could not help but reproach him for his going abroad and leaving only the altogether inadequate book-keeper as the single white person in my immediate company. He must already have received some intelligence of the incidents to which I was making reference, for he chose quickly to apologize and confess it to have been an oversight on his part. He promised to make amends next day. With this our conversation faltered, never to recover, and Mr Brown took his weary leave, leaving me to contemplate my main course in isolation. I, in turn, felt guilty for having pressed him so soon upon his return. These past six days have been the most trying and lonely days I have had to endure. I trust Mr Brown will not again abandon me, unchaperoned, to the caprices of plantation life.
Since the fortuitous return of my vitality, I have almost daily grown increasingly curious to learn more about the nature of
the island that I inhabit. Our plantation occupies only one small part of this realm, albeit an enchanting and delectable part, but I dearly wish to taste fully each hidden corner of the land. So it was with a light heart and eager anticipation that I accepted Mr Brown's unexpected and generous offer to spend a day touring with him. He further announced that within the fortnight we would dine in Baytown as the guests of some merchants of his acquaintance. I took the liberty of reminding Mr Brown that on my return to England I intended to occupy myself with a little lecturing, and perhaps even a preliminary attempt at some form of publication. He was kind enough to declare that he could foresee no reason why I should not successfully complete such a project, and that he felt sure that observations gleaned on these two days would augment greatly my proposed study.
The morning sky was brushed with high thin clouds which promised a fine day. A most handsomely attired Mr Brown and I journeyed in a carriage drawn by two stout shire-horses, and we gingerly picked our way downhill, scattering dramatically hued bird-life from ground to twig and branch. Our steep and rocky path, whose nature seemed to have grown more treacherous since my earlier ascent, cut a rough-hewn passage through trees whose overhanging boughs formed a most verdant and magnificent arch. This green architecture allowed entrance to a few cheerful patches of sunlight, and afforded myself and Mr Brown the occasional delightful view of the sea through the dense thicket of trunks and foliage. Below us the waves of the ocean rolled in measured cadence onto the beach, and as we encroached closer the musical harmony of rushing water broke upon our ears with ever-swelling amplitude. On reaching the coastal
island road
the vast expanse of the watery world burst upon our sight and lay spread out before us. Mr Brown kindly informed me that this main highway circumnavigated the whole of this small realm, delicately skirting the watery hem of the island.
We travelled slowly, making full use of the sea-breeze, that
friend to sufferers from the conquering heat, essaying only the occasional forays up inland paths in order that Arnold might point out some particular tree, or place of historical interest. Once back upon the main highway, we allowed ourselves but one extended interlude, pausing by a low and loosely assembled stone wall which bordered the road with the high design of guarding against accidents. From over this wall, I peered down at the surface of the sea, smooth and mirror-clear, except where the breakers played over a series of long reefs, far out from shore, and threw up their beautiful but treacherous spray in seemingly playful showers. From ledges upon the face of the rocky precipice on whose summit we stood, sea-birds plumed their ragged feathers and watched alertly for their prey. That great king of birds, the pelican, was on the wing, plying the air, then swooping down to the surface to gather provisions into its ample bill. Sadly, Arnold and I could not tarry long in this sultry atmosphere, for the heat soon became unsupportable and I yearned for that soft cooling breeze brought on by movement of our carriage.
Just beyond the village known as
Butler's,
Arnold drew the carriage to a halt beside a broad stream which coursed through the cane-pieces. He did so in order that I might have the opportunity to observe some negroes engaged in washing clothes. The negro men wore hats, but it was too late to protect their complexions, for nature had already painted them a shade too dark. They did no more than stand and watch as their women performed the domestic ritual, pounding clothes against stones, and then rinsing these rags in the turbid water. The appearance of the females was truly disgusting to me, for without a single exception their arms were drawn out of their sleeves and from the waist upwards they were in a state of unashamed nakedness. One woman, her hair matted with filth, and, I imagine, her flesh host to countless forms of infestation, stood in a condition of total nudity in the centre of the stream. Long encrusted with dirt by her labours, she now scrubbed
away at the small rolls of grease with her soapless hands. Eventually she stepped clear of her muddy brown bath, and as the water beaded on the shining surface of her newly bright skin she merely lifted her head to the heavens and imbibed the heat of the sun, which would soon dry her ebon hide. Arnold informed me that such habits of cleanliness were uncommon in these people, who prided themselves on their infrequent use of water. However, where it occurred it was to be encouraged.