revenge. But this act was also justice. He recalled the proverb: "One
day's rain makes up for many days' drought." Tonight one torch would
make up for many weeks of whippings, starvation, humiliation.
"Mark me well." Atiba held the burning straw aloft and turned to
address the men. "These pots are the last sugar you will ever see on
this island. This, and the cane from which it was made, all will be
gone, never to return. The forests of the Orisa will thrive here once
more."
He held the flaming bundle above his head a moment longer, while he
intoned a verse in praise of Ogun, and then flung it against the
thatched wall behind him, where it splayed against a post and
disintegrated. They all watched as the dry-reed wall smoldered in the
half-darkness, then blossomed with small tongues of fire.
Quickly he led them out again, through the narrow doorway and into the
cool night. The west wind whipped the palm trees now, growing ever
fresher. Already the flame had scaled the reed walls of the curing
house, and now it burst through the thatched roof like the opening of a
lush tropical flower.
As they made ready to hurry on up the path toward the mill room, the
drum of hoofbeats sounded through the night. Next came frantic shouts
from the direction of the great house. It was the voice of Benjamin
Briggs.
Atiba motioned them into the shadows, where they watched in dismay as a
scattering of white indentures began lumbering down the hill, toting
buckets of water and shovels, headed for the burning fields.
The Yoruba men all turned to Atiba, disbelieving. The male _branco
_slaves had not risen up. They had come back to aid in the perpetuation
of their own servitude. As Atiba watched the fire brigade, he felt his
contempt rising, and his anger.
Could they not see that this was the moment?
But instead of turning their guns on their enemy, setting torch to his
house, declaring themselves free--the _branco _slaves had cravenly done
as Briggs commanded. They were no better than their women.
"The _branco _chief has returned to his compound. Like him, all the
_branco _masters on the island must now be trembling in fear." Atiba
felt his heart sink as he motioned the men forward. Finally he
understood the whites. Serina had been right. Color counted for more
than slavery. Now more than ever they needed the muskets from the ship.
"Quickly. We must burn the mill, then go and seize the guns. There's no
time to lose."
The mill house was only a short distance farther up the hill. They left
the path and moved urgently through the brush and palms toward the back
of the thatched building. It stood silent, waiting, a dark silhouette
against the glowing horizon.
"Atiba, there is no longer time for this." Obewole moved to the front
of the line and glanced nervously at the darkening skies. Heavy clouds
obscured the moon, and the wind had grown sharp. "We must hurry to the
ship as soon as we can and seize the _branco's _guns. This mill house
is a small matter; the guns are a heavy one. The others will be there
soon, waiting for us."
"No. This must burn too. We will melt forever the chains that enslave
us."
He pressed quickly up the slope toward the low thatched building. From
the center of the roof the high pole projected skyward, still scorched
where the lightning of Shango had touched it the night of the ceremony.
"Then hurry. The flint." Obewole held out the last bundle of straw
toward Atiba as they edged under the thatched eaves. "There's no time
to go in and pray here."
Atiba nodded and out of his hand a quick flash, like the pulse of a
Caribbean firefly, shot through the dark.
Shango was with her, part of her. As Serina dropped to her knees,
before the drawing of the axe, she no longer knew who she was, where
she was. Unnoticed, the dull glow from the open doorway grew brighter,
as the fires in the cane fields beyond raged.
"Shango, _nibo l'o nlo? _Shango?" She knelt mumbling, sweat soaking
through her shift. The words came over and over, almost like the
numbing cadence of the Christian rosary, blotting out all other sounds.
She had heard nothing--not the shouts at the main house nor the ringing
of the fire bell nor the dull roar of flames in the night air. But
then, finally, she did sense faint voices, in Yoruba, and she knew
Shango was there. But soon those voices were lost, blurred by the
distant chorus of crackling sounds that seemed to murmur back her own
whispered words.
The air around her had grown dense, suffocating. Dimly, painfully she
began to realize that the walls around her had turned to fire. She
watched, mesmerized, as small flame-tips danced in circles of red and
yellow and gold, then leapt and spun in pirouettes across the rafters
of the heavy thatched roof.
Shango had sent her a vision. It could not be real.
Then a patch of flame plummeted onto the floor beside her, and soon
chunks of burning straw were raining about her. Feebly, fear surging
through her now, she attempted to rise.
Her legs refused to move. She watched the flames in terror for a
moment, and then she remembered the wand, still in her outstretched
hand. Without thinking, she clasped it again to her pounding breast. As
the room disappeared in smoke, she called out the only word she still
remembered.
"Shango!"
The collapse of the burning thatched wall behind her masked the deep,
sonorous crack that sounded over the hillside.
"Damn me!" Benjamin Briggs dropped his wooden bucket and watched as the
dark cloudbank hovering in the west abruptly flared. Then a boom of
thunder shook the night sky. Its sound seemed to unleash a pent-up
torrent, as a dense sheet of island rain slammed against the hillside
around him with the force of a mallet.
The fires that blazed in the fields down the hill began to sputter into
boiling clouds of steam as they were swallowed
in wave after wave of the downpour. The night grew suddenly dark again,
save for the crisscross of lightning in the skies.
"For once, a rain when we needed it. It'll save the sugar, by my life."
He turned and yelled for the indentures to reclaim their weapons and
assemble. "Try and keep your matchcord dry." He watched with
satisfaction as the men, faces smeared with smoke, lined up in front of
him. "We've got to round up the Africans now, and try and find out
who's responsible for this. God is my witness, I may well hang a couple
this very night to make an example."
"I think I saw a crowd of them headed up toward the mill house, just
before the rain started in." The indenture's tanned face was emerging
as the rain purged away the soot. "Like as not, they were thinkin'
they'd fire that too."
"God damn them all. We lose the mill and we're ruined." He paused, then
his voice came as a yell. "God's blood! The curing house! Some of you
get over there quick. They might've tried to fire that as well. I've
got a fortune in white sugar curing out." He looked up and pointed at
two of the men, their straw hats dripping in the rain. "You, and you.
Move or I'll have your hide. See there's nothing amiss."
"Aye, Yor Worship." The men whirled and were gone.
"Now, lads." Briggs turned back to the others. A half dozen men were
left, all carrying ancient matchlock muskets. "Keep an eye on your
matchcord, and let's spread out and collect these savages." He quickly
checked the prime on his flintlock musket and cocked it. "We've got to
stop them before they try to burn the main house." He stared through
the rain, then headed up the hill, in the direction of the mill house.
"And stay close to me. They're rampaging like a pack of wild island
hogs."
Something was slapping at the smoldering straw in her hair and she felt
a hand caress her face, then an arm slide beneath her. The room, the
mill, all were swallowed in dark, blinding
smoke; now she was aware only of the heat and the closeness of the
powerful arms that lifted her off the flame-strewn floor.
Then there were other voices, faraway shouts, in the same musical
language that she heard whispered against her ear. The shouts seemed to
be directed at the man who held her, urging him to leave her, to come
with them, to escape while there was time. Yet still he held her, his
cheek close against her own.
Slowly Atiba rose, holding her body cradled against him, and pushed
through the smoke. The heat was drifting away now, and she felt the
gentle spatters of rain against her face as sections of the water-
soaked thatched roof collapsed around them, opening the room to the
sky.
The sound of distant gunfire cut through the night air as he pushed out
the doorway into the dark. She felt his body stiffen, painfully, as
though he had received the bullets in his own chest. But no, the firing
was down the hill, somewhere along the road leading to the coast.
The cold wetness of the rain, and the warmth of the body she knew so
well, awoke her as though from a dream. "You must go." She heard her
own voice. Why had he bothered to save her, instead of leading his own
men to safety. She was nothing now. The revolt had started; they must
fight or be killed. "Hurry. Before the _branco _come."
As she struggled to regain her feet, to urge him on to safety, she
found herself wanting to flee also. To be with him, in death as in
life. If he were gone, what would there be to live for. . .?
"We have failed." He was caressing her with his sad eyes. "Did you hear
the thunder? It was the voice of Shango." Now he looked away, and his
body seemed to wither from some grief deep within. "I somehow
displeased Shango. And now he has struck us down. Even Ogun is not
powerful enough to overcome the god who commands the skies."
"It was because I wanted to protect you."
He looked down at her quizzically. "I didn't know you were in the mill
house till I heard you call out Shango's name. Why were you there
tonight, alone?"
"I was praying." She avoided his dark eyes, wishing she could say more.
"Praying that you would stop, before it was too late. I knew you could
not succeed. I was afraid you would be killed."
He embraced her, then ran his wide hand through her wet, singed hair.
"Sometimes merely doing what must be done is its own victory. I'll not
live a slave. Never." He held her again, tenderly, then turned away.
"Remember always to live and die with honor. Let no man ever forget
what we tried to do here tonight."
He was moving down the hill now, his machete in his hand.
"No!" She was running after him, half-blinded by the rain. "Don't try
to fight any more. Leave. You can hide. We'll escape!"
"A Yoruba does not hide from his enemies. I will not dishonor the
compound of my father. I will stand and face the man who has wronged
me."
"No! Please!" She was reaching to pull him back when a voice came out
of the dark, from the pathway down below.
"Halt, by God!" It was Benjamin Briggs, squinting through the downpour.
"So it's you. I might have known. You were behind this, I'll stake my
life. Stop where you are, by Jesus, or I'll blow you to hell like the
other two savages who came at my men."
She found herself wondering if the musket would fire. The rain was
still a torrent. Then she felt Atiba's hand shove her aside and saw his
dark form hurtle down the trail toward the planter. Grasping his
machete, he moved almost as a cat: bobbing, weaving, surefooted and
deadly.
The rain was split by the crack of a musket discharge, and she saw him
slip momentarily and twist sideways. His machete clattered into the
dark as he struggled to regain his balance, but he had not slowed his
attack. When he reached Briggs, he easily ducked the swinging butt of
the musket. Then his left hand closed about the planter's throat and
together they went down in the mud, to the sound of Briggs' choked
yells.
When she reached them, they were sprawled in the gully beside the path,
now a muddy flood of water from the hill above. Atiba's right arm
dangled uselessly, but he held the planter pinned against the mud with
his knee, while his left hand closed against the throat. There were no
more yells, only deathly silence.
"No! Don't!" She was screaming, her arms around Atiba's neck as she
tried to pull him away.
He glanced up at her, dazed, and his grip on Briggs' throat loosened
slightly. The planter lay gasping and choking in the rain.
"Dara . . .!" Atiba was looking past her and yelling a warning when
the butt of the matchlock caught him across the chest. She fell with
him as three straw-hatted indentures swarmed over them both.
"By God, I'll hang the savage with my own hands." Briggs was still
gasping as he began to pull himself up out of the mud. He choked again
and turned to vomit; then he struggled to his feet. "Tie the whoreson
down. He's like a mad dog."
"He's been shot, Yor Worship." One of the indentures was studying the
blood on his hands, from where he had been holding Atiba's shoulder.
"Would you have us attend to this wound?"
"I shot the savage myself." Briggs glared at them. "No credit to the
lot of you. Then he well nigh strangled me. He's still strong as a
bull. Don't trouble with that shot wound. I'll not waste the swathing
cloth." He paused again to cough and rub his throat. "He's going to
have a noose around his neck as soon as the rain lets up."
Briggs walked over to where Atiba lay, his arms pinned against the
ground and a pike against his chest. "May God damn you, sir. I just
learned you managed to burn and ruin a good half the sugar in my curing
house." He choked again and spat into the rain. Then he turned back.
"Would you could understand what I'm saying, you savage. But mark this.
Every black on this island's going to know it when I have you hanged,
you can be sure. It'll put a stop to any more of these devilish plots,
as I'm a Christian."
Serina felt her eyes brimming with tears. In trying to save him, she
had brought about his death. But everything she had done had been out
of devotion. Would he ever understand that? Still, perhaps there was
time . . .
"Are you well, Master Briggs?" She turned to the planter. Her cinnamon
fingers stroked lightly along his throat.
"Aye. And I suppose there's some thanks for you in it." He looked at
her, puzzling at the wet, singed strands of hair across her face. "I
presume the savage was thinking to make off with you, to use you for
his carnal lusts, when I haply put a halt to the business."
"I have you to thank."
"Well, you were some help to me in the bargain, I'll own it. So there's
an end on the matter." He glanced at Atiba, then back at her. "See to
it these shiftless indentures tie him up like he was a bull. Wound or
no, he's still a threat to life. To yours as well as mine."
Even as he spoke, a dark shadow seemed to drop out of the rain. She
glanced up and just managed to recognize the form of Derin, his machete
poised above his head like a scythe. It flashed in the lantern light as
he brought it down against the arm of one of the indentures holding
Atiba. The straw-hatted man screamed and doubled over.
What happened next was blurred, shrouded in the dark. Atiba was on his
feet, flinging aside the other indentures. Then he seized his own
machete out of the mud with his left hand and turned on Briggs. But
before he could move, Derin jostled against him and grabbed his arm.
There were sharp words in Yoruba and Atiba paused, a frozen silhouette
poised above the planter.
"By Christ, I'll . . ." Briggs was drawing the long pistol from his
belt when Atiba suddenly turned away.
The gun came up and fired, but the two Yoruba warriors were already
gone, swallowed in the night.
"Well, go after them, God damn you." The planter was shouting at the
huddled, terrified indentures. "Not a man on this plantation is going
to sleep till both those heathens are hanged and quartered."
As the indentures gingerly started down the hill in the direction Atiba
and Derin had gone, Briggs turned and, still coughing, headed
purposefully up the pathway toward the remains of the mill room.
The burned-away roof had collapsed entirely, leaving the first sugar
mill on Barbados open to the rain--its wide copper rollers sparkling
like new.