—Me didn’t grow up in no Africa.
—That be the pity. Mean you still don’t know what freedom be, even if me tell you plain. But you soon know, or God help all o’ we.
Robert Quinn roll over on him back. She like to wait until he sleeping deep and climb in bed and lay down on him chest, with him hair feeling like a cushion. Quinn sleep heavy but he reach for cuddling whenever she touch him. That be the only time when Lilith let go of her being negro and he being backra. Is the only time when he touch her back and don’t flinch. He caress the memory out of her. Sleeping on him back, he is new territory to discover. She can put her hand above him nose and feel him breath or rub her hand on him chest or run circles round him navel. She can even kiss Quinn on the neck or sometimes the lip but ’fraid to wake him up. But now Lilith can’t go in the bed. Now she only watching. Now every time he turn she thinking ’bout something he do or say. Lilith don’t know if she thankful or love-full. Or maybe she do know but niggerwoman must never say them things. What kinda nigger rather be slave to free? Why her mind getting heavy with them kinda question?
Make sure you don’t give the backra no reason to stay
.
On the way back from the cave Lilith walking with Homer. That time in Quinn kitchen feel like a long time ago and the womens now walk wide apart. Lilith in front trying to put all the Homers together. But maybe the time too late. There was a time when Homer was somewhere between mother and sister, with the funny nasty talking that friend share with friend, like Dulcimena. But this new Homer nearly make Callisto slit her throat. This new Homer have no lightness ’bout her no more, not even when she make joke. This new Homer counting and planning all the time and talking too much in Africa tongue. This new Homer ask if Robert Quinn like dasheen and she should come in the morning and get some. Lilith want to ask if she plan on fattening him up before she kill him but hold her tongue.—Be wicked if you wish and good if you plan, but stop trying to be both, Lilith say but not to Homer. This strike her as something that Homer would say. A certain Homer anyway.
—And when you kill off the backra and burn down him estate, what next? Lilith say.
—Then we free, Homer say.
—Free? So it easy?
—We have the torch. All we need now is the spark.
—Surely.
—Nigger time now. Time to make we own life.
—And what happen after the militia come? What ’bout tomorrow? The day after that?
Homer stop.—Me done answer question, she say.
—You, who always have answer for everything? What going happen when the guns run out and the militia keep coming? What ’bout the Maroons?
Homer stop.
—We deal with that when we come to that. One thing at a time.
—Tell that to them nigger who don’t know ’bout you. You sending all of them right into Maroon and militia hand. You who know better than anybody how they stay. What ’bout that?
Homer don’t look at her.
—You really don’t know. Jesus, you don’t know.
—Lilith.
—Everybody so hot for blood nobody seeing true. You think you pickneys goin’ come back?
—Quiet you mouth!
—You don’t give damn ’bout no freedom or no black man land, you just want somebody to bleed for you pickney.
—Me say shut up! Or me’ll make you every hole spit up blood before sunrise, you hear me?
—Sick and tired of hearing you.
—Me sure is not me you talking to.
—That make two of we, ’cause me sure is not you me talking to either.
Lilith and Homer still walking, Lilith in front. Both walking through a trail right in the middle of the cane piece.
—You think me is a idiot? Homer say.
Lilith stop and turn around.—Me think you is not you, she say.
—Me don’t know why everybody in this plan but me know why you in it and is not no freedom business. And everybody goin’ get capture or kill.
—You think this is just ’bout me? Mayhaps if you wasn’t living on top of Irishman you’d ask somebody. Why you don’t ask Iphigenia, eh? Why you don’t ask why she always cover up like the time cold? Ask her what happen when them drivers see her by the fence and say she running away. How them tie her up, mash up some burning coal and sprinkle her body with it. Gal so scarred up that the only thing she show now be her finger. Why you think she chat so nasty ’bout fucking all the time? ’Cause she know that not even blind nigger goin’ want her. You ask Callisto ’bout her one eye yet? You ask Hippolyta? She’d love to tell you. She’d love to tell a nigger anything.
—Then why she don’t—
—You say you smart, so use you head. What kind of nigger you be, eh? One man hot up you bush and you change. He did nice when he leave all the mark on you back?
—He didn’t whip me.
—Chile, if that is what you have to think to make the ruttin’ sweeter, carry on.
—This not ’bout me, Homer, no matter what you say.
—It not ’bout me either! Damn fool. You must be the only nigger who not nigger. Besides, too late now. Every estate in the east goin’ rise up. Freedom comin’ whether you ready or not.
—Freedom, or death.
—One and the same in the colonies sometimes. Anything better than this. Negro blood cryin’ out. You of all people, you supposed to hear when blood cry out.
—You know, it take me a long time to see that all you have is goddamn mouth and two Obeah trick.
—Myal.
—Me couldn’t give two shake of a rat’s arse.
—What a way you talk white these days, whiter than alabas—
—Oh, quit you mouth, Homer. ’Bout blood cry out. What you know ’bout blood? Blood don’t nothing but red. Me, me smell them. You ever kill anybody? Me smell them.
—Is you mind.
—You is a right one to talk ’bout mind. Me smell them. Whatever me did want get from the white man, me get it and more. You can’t understand that. You still want you blood. Me get my blood and see me here. Nothing different. Nothing better. Revenge don’t leave me nothing but them burning skin smell that me can’t blow out of me nose nor wash out.
—When we take over the estate, flesh goin’ cook like goose.
—You listening to me?
—When you make sense me will listen to you.
—Of course, Homer. ’Cause everybody listen to you. All of them want to get free so bad them don’t even see that you not making no sense. Not one thing ’bout this rebellion make sense—
—What don’t make sense ’bout it, you damn Judas nigger? If you love slavery so bad then stay.
—Them dead, Homer. Too late now to try be a mother.
Homer try to slap Lilith but Lilith catch her hand. They look at each other for a long time before Lilith let go.
—You think you is woman? Homer say.
—Me think me is Lilith, Lilith say.
—Make sure you know which side you on.
—Is not me, me worried ’bout.
Homer head for the great house and Lilith head for Robert Quinn.
Lilith leave Robert Quinn sleeping and go to her room. The next morning coffee wake her up. She pull on her dress and go in the kitchen to see Robert Quinn pouring himself a mug.
—Morning, luv, he say.
Lilith nod and curtsy little bit, but then feel fool for doing so as soon as she do. Quinn dress himself in a blue shirt and black breeches. Him boots sleeping on the floor with yesterday mud all over. He place a straw hat on the table.—Feeling a wee bit like a peacock, he say. Quinn sit down. Lilith go over to the counter to commence making breakfast.
—I thought we had an understanding, lovey.
—Massa?
—I thought we understood that ye should make my bed yours from now on.
—No, massa, me didn’t understand that.
—Well, I’m sure ye comprehend now.
—Yes, massa.
—Oh, do appear more pleased about it, lass, I’d think ye get no pleasure from lying with me.
—Oh no, massa. Me get plenty pleasing.
—Then condemn me to an empty bed no longer.
Lilith liking how he sounding. He sounding like verse man or singing man by what he saying and how he saying it. She ’bout to smile but a-frown.
—But you soon leave, Massa Robert.
—Aye, that’s a truth that depresses me greatly, lovey. Depresses me greatly. There was at first only one here I held any great affection fer, now there’s two. Two that I’ll leave behind. Unless . . . unless. The devil I’ll be. I shall be back before breakfast, he say, kiss her on the cheek and run though the door. Lilith wait on him and tap her toes. In a blink he come back through the door, cussing in Irish. He sit down on the table, pull on him boots, flash a smile at Lilith and go through the door again.
Breakfast didn’t done cook before he come back. Robert Quinn swing open and slam the door into the wall. He stomp inside with him face redder than ever.
—The feckin’ sniveling son of a jackal bitch! Consumed with spite he is, that feckin’ bastard. Nothing but goddamn spite!
—Vindictive son of a bitch. Never in all me life seen a man with such malcontent as that whoreson, he say.
Robert Quinn sit down at the table and shuck off one boot, then the other.
—I’m sorry, luv, I’m far too cross to eat.
Lilith set down the plate anyway. He stare at it for a while, then look at her. He pick up a johnnycake, dip it in gravy and eat.
—I tried to buy ye, Robert Quinn say. Lilith nearly drop her plate. —I tried to buy ye, but the bastard said no. No, he says. Just no! Oh, he’s wicked now, him and his whoring wife to be!
—Massa Robert!
—I shall not hold me feckin’ tongue in me own goddamn house! I worked good and hard fer it indeed. He thinks this is the end of it, he’s sadly mistaken. When word gets out about what his future wife does in Kingston, he’ll be sorry he crossed the likes of Robert Quinn, ye can bet on that, lassie, aye! Ye can wager good!
27
MISS ISOBEL RIDE TO KINGSTON LIKE A DEMON CHASING HER. Robert Quinn, for all him riding, was no expert horseman like she. Galloping down the Half Way Tree Road, he didn’t have nothing to guide him but the dust she leave and him own memory of where he go for whorin’ when he and Massa Humphrey set foot in the city. He ride down Orange Street, empty at night, and go to turn back ’cause he think he miss her. But few people up and about at this hour and fewer still on horseback. He sees her. Her horse trottin’ now and she in Massa Humphrey black coat and breeches and her boots shiny. Orange Street is where all the markets be for fruits and liquor and hogs and fowl, but by the three o’clock hour the only thing on the street be rubbish and rats. And the beggars. A white one stagger up to Quinn begging for a quid or a pence, matey, and Quinn slip him foot out of he saddle and kick him away. The man land flat on him arse and just hiss and ask the road for a farthing then, matey.
Miss Isobel turn down a lane. Quinn never got the name but it head west. Save for one or two lantern that hang above an inn or a tavern, the lane did darker than hell. There be nothing but more rubbish and more rats squeaking and scurrying that too dark to see. Quinn think to dismount, but there was no way he was goin’ leave him horse in that place. He ride slow while Miss Isobel trot, mayhaps eighty or a hundred yards ahead of him. Miss Isobel stop at a crossroad and tie off her horse at a building on the corner. As she slip inside, Quinn gallop.
Hog’s Breath Inn and Tavern the sign say, the words under a real boar head. Quinn at the corner of the lane and Oxford Street, the beginning of the west end. Greenwich, the contraband port, not far. Hog’s Breath tower over all of the lane like it be a lighthouse. Quinn go to knock on the door but it push open, and smell rush him like four whore going at him at once. He grab him nose with him left hand and pull out him kerchief with him right. Lantern all over the wall but the room still feel dark and smell of liquor and lustiness and shit. And sawdust and old food and mildew. Four or five mens sprawled by the bar, two of them sleeping on the counter. The barmaid sitting and looking into the dark like she seeing everything and nothing. A big fat man in old infantry clothes stumble away with a whore who was pulling him along by the crotch. They go upstairs and Quinn follow them with him eye. He look around. A negro fiddler off to the side playing like for dead people. He one of the few who not a-snoring or a-groping or a-fuckin’ in the dark. Lantern on the table and lantern on the floor that glow on men’s teeth and hand and ears but hide they eyes. Light glow on women’s legs that man caressing, and petticoats that man lifting, and bosoms that man squeezing but hide they head. Quinn know this bar. A whore, a white woman with dark teeth and cheeks speckle from the pox, come to Quinn and grope him before he could stop her. He push her away and she barrel into two mens, who get up to fight but fall down from drunkenness. Quinn look around but don’t see Miss Isobel. Gone upstairs, she must be.
So much stink fight for space in the inn that a nose would think there be no smell at all. But upstair be more smells, human funk, not liquor like downstairs. There be rumours of a opium den in Kingston but Quinn never would have guess that this is where it be. He push open a room and see white mens, some old, some not so old, and one of them—a short fat man, naked save for him stockings—asking where him wig be, even though it still atop him head. Four or five men in cots, three or four on the floor, Quinn couldn’t say for sure, but they all, save for the man looking for him wig, smoking opium. He hear a sound, a giggle, a titter, he not sure but not a sound that a man make, not even the sorta men that sometime flock these parts.
The voice coming from behind him. Quinn try to walk slow, but him boot thick and heavy and each step is a boom. He push open the door and step right into the blade of a sword.
—When she said she was being followed, I thought it was her knack for storytellin’ actin’ up agin. Seems the bitch was right.