No? He was crying again.
Nonsense.
"Nevah min', son, com' to yo' mahmie." She was loving and awake. No,
it couldn't be--something was wrong--he wasn't crying. Was she still
dreaming? No! She was nursing the brat! Here--his cold head pegging at
her armpit--here--tugging away at her very gizzard.
She began to feel for him. A soft, cool, flat something met her hand.
His forehead, most likely. Sweat--was it that hot--or was he sick--the
ague--fever--the rain water--crying--
Still he managed to be on the floor yelling. How was that? Was he a
dual being?
Here he was at her breast, gnawing away at it. And there he was down on
the floor, howling.
Absurd!
Again the exploring hand went out. Why, here he was, of course, the
dual rascal, nursing! (Pity it was so blamed dark!) Certainly he was
nursing. And she proceeded to make sure for the last time.
But suddenly the head receded, slipped down into the gut in the straw.
And on the other side of the room Water Spout gave a loud unmistakable
yell.
Jumping up, Seenie flew to the child and snatched him to her bosom,
tight.
"Oh, me Gawd, me Gawd," she screamed, bursting through the door into
the silence of the Guiana night.
* * * * *
It was barren sky. Frosts of dew, flakes of sunlight, fell upon the
earth, fell likewise on the black gleaming uniform of one of the
Sergeant's men, unhurriedly making for the hut.
Some six hours later he returned, dragging on the coral road to the sea
the fresh dead body of a bloaty milk-fed snake the sheen of a moon in
May.
_THE VAMPIRE BAT_
9
_THE VAMPIRE BAT_
He was one of the island's few plantation owners and a solid pillar
of the Crown. He had gone forth at the King's trumpet call to buck
the Boer's hairy anger. But at last the guerilla warrior had become a
glorious ghost and the jaunty buckras were trekking back to Barbadoes.
Flying into a breastwork of foam, the English torpedo boat had suddenly
stopped, wedged in a sargasso reef a dozen miles from the Caribbean
sea. After landing at a remote corner on the jungle coast, Bellon was
forced to make the trip, a twelve mile affair, on drays and mule carts
over the brown, hoof-caked road to Mount Tabor.
But Mount Tabor, once a star on a pinnacle of wooded earth, was lost to
old Sharon Prout's Boer-fighting son.
Wrecked in the storm which swept the island the very week Bellon had
embarked for South Africa--it was a garden of lustrous desolation.
Weedy growth overspread it. The lichened caverns below the stoke
hole, once giving berth to hills of cane husk--fodder for the zooming
fire--fertilized beds of purple beans. A stable, housing a mare and
landau, stood on the old mill's bank. Rows of _taches_--troughs into
which the cane's juice was boiled and brewed through a succession of
stages until it became a quarry of loaf sugar--frothed green on the
rich, muggy land. One was a pond. Frogs and green water lilies floated
on it. Another, filled to the maw, gave fathomless earth to breadfruit.
The old shaggy mare, a relic of the refining era at Mount Tabor,
plodded through the dead, thick marl. Wearing a cork hat and a
cricketer's white flannel shirt, open at the throat, Bellon drew near
the woods to Airy Hill.
He trotted down a slanting road in to Locust Hall. A mulatto cane
cutter, poxy progenitor of twenty-one husky mule-driving sons, stood
under the raised portcullis, talking to a woman. Pulling at a murky
clay pipe he was slyly coaxing her to a spot in the cane piece.
His juice-moist bill, bright as a piece of steel, shone in the
fern-cluttered gut. Blacks on sluggish bat-eared asses mounted the hill
mouthing hymns to drive away the evil spirits.
Father, O Father
... past the fading rays of night
Awake! awake!
Game-vending squatters streamed down from Flat Rock, cocks gleaming on
trays which saddled their heads. From the shining hills the estate's
night hands meandered in, pecking at greasy skillets. Corn meal flecked
the snowy marl.
Reminiscently Bellon ruffled the horse's mane. "You old war horse,
you." Once, long before the storm, the blacks at Arise, one of the
old man's estates--a stark, neurotic lot--had burned and pilfered the
old sugar mill, while the buckras were confabbing on the seashore of
Hastings. Rayside, then but a frisky colt, smelling a rat, had made a
wild dash for the city--neighing the tidings to the buckras.
Now it fell to the young heir to be returning to Waterford, the last
of the old man's estates, on the back of the heroic old mare.
It was ten o'clock at night and he had yet fourteen miles to go.
A lone moon-swept cabin or a smoker's pipe light, blazing in the canes,
occasionally broke the drab expanse of night. The road trickled on,
deepening into a gully. There rose above it rocky hedges, seeding
flower and fruit. Swaying in the wind, the cane brake grew denser,
darker. The marl lost its prickly edge and buried the animal's hoofs in
soft, gray flour. Laboriously she loped through it.
The road gently lifted. It perceptibly dazzled the myopic beast. The
marl returned. It blazed white, and shone. The earth about it seemed
bare and flat and the cane brakes thinner. And the moon hung lower.
A rickety donkey cart suddenly came jogging down the hill. A creole
woman, atop an ass, trotted by. The wind soared to a higher, sturdier
level. It blew like breezes on the gay Caribbean sea. Had it been noon,
or dusk, blackbirds would have speckled the corn fields or sped low
above the reeling canes. But the moon ribbed the night and gave the
canes, tottering on the high flat earth, a crystal cloaking.
Now the road faltered, steadied, and as the road slanted, the marl
thickened until it became flour dust again. The cottages at The Turning
hove into view.
"At last," the captain cried, and the lanky mare quickened at the
proximity of feed. Her reins fell on her back, limp with sweat.
Opposite a Negro baker shop Bellon dismounted, hitched the animal to a
guava tree, and knocked upon the door.
"Who dat?" shouted a voice from within.
"Captain Prout," he replied, and the door swung to.
Squat and stout, Mother Cragwell, a Ba'bajan creole--mixture of white
and Negro--admitted him, and shuffled back behind the counter, eying
the visitor. She had been kneading dough, the counter was lathered with
it, and her hands were scaly with shreds of flour.
"Mas' Prout," the old woman exclaimed, "wha' yo' a do down yah dis time
o' night? Yo' na'h go home no?"
"Why, yes, Mother Cragwell," replied the officer jovially, "can't a
law-abiding colonist walk the King's highway after dark?"
"De King's highways," the old woman sarcastically muttered, "wha' dey
care 'bout any King?"
Fixing her brownish red eyes on the buckra, she looked puzzled,
skeptical.
"Why, is that the sort of welcome you give a returning soldier, Mother
Cragwell?" he inquired, flattered by the old woman's characteristically
racial concern.
She shook her head, ruefully bestirring herself. "Han' me dat bucket
dey," she said. "How much yo' want?"
"Oh, fill it," he said, fetching the pail, "the road is beginning to
tell on the old wretch."
"'Bout time," murmured Miss Cragwell, who'd been a fixture at The
Turning for over thirty years.
She half-filled the pail with molasses, burst a bag of flour into it
and began mixing the mash with a ladle.
"Well, I suppose this is her last trip to Waterford--she's entitled to
a pension for the rest of her life, the horny old nag."
He took the mare the foaming mash and returned to be confronted by a
cup of chocolate, a knot of burnt cane and a tasty banana tart. Among
bill twirlers, mule cart drivers, and cork-hatted overseers and estate
owners, Mother Cragwell's "drops" and sweet bread, turnovers and
cassava pone, were famous to the farthest ends of the Ba'bajan compass.
He cordially sat down to the mulatto's informal hospitality. "I knew,"
he observed, "that I'd have to wait till I reached The Turning before I
could prove I was back in the colony." He took a relishing sip and the
old creole's glare fell.
"Mas' Prout," she said, "yo bes' don't go down de gully to-night, yo'
hear?"
"Why, what's happening in the gully, Mother Cragwell?" he smiled,
splitting the sugar cane. "Is the man in the canes prowling about? Or
do you think the duppies will be haunting Rayside's tracks?"
But the young Briton's banter chilled the old mulattress. "If yo' know
what is good fo' yo'self, yo' bes' hear wha' Oi tell yo'," was all she
said.
"H'm! this tastes like good old West Indian rum!" he cried, taking
another fig of the cane. "Did you burn it yourself, Mother Cragwell?"
"Who, me? No, bo," she retorted, looking up. "Dah cane yo' got dey come
from down de road."
"What, did they have a fire there recently?"
"Yes, bo. Las' night. The fire hags ketch it fire las' night."
"The who?"
"Hey," the old woman drawled, shocked at the young man's density. "Hey,
look at his boy, ni. Yo' don't fomembah wha' a fire hag is, no? An' he
say he gwine down de gully to-night."
Bellon burst into a fit of ridiculing laughter. "Why, shame upon you,
Mother Cragwell!"
"Ent yo' got piece o' de ve'y cane in yo' mout' suckin'?" she cried,
fazed, hurt.
"Tommyrot! Some jealous squatter fired the brake, that's all."
"Yo' believe dat?" challenged the old lady, "Orright den, go 'long. Go
'long, bo. All yo' buckras t'ink unna know mo' dan we neygahs. Go 'long
down de gully 'bout yo' business, bo."
He rose, handed her a shilling and started for the door.
Suddenly a whinny from the mare--a wild scream in the night--startled
him.
"Who dat?" shouted Mother Cragwell, seizing an old cricket bat and
going towards the door.
"Oh, me Gard, me Gard, me Gard--"
The door was slapped open and a Negro woman, draped in white, shaking a
black parasol and a hand bag, entered. She was shivering and white-eyed
and breathless.
"Calm yo'self, girl, an' stop wringin' yo' hands. Yo' gwine poke out a
body eye wit' dat parasol yo' flo'ish dey."
"Oh, Miss Cragwell, Miss Cragwell--"
"Hey, sit down, Lizzie. It is Lizzie Coates. Wha' yo' doin' up yah dis
time o' night, girl?"
"Oh, de man in de canes, de man in de canes--"
"Wha' he do to yo'?"
"Oh, de man in de canes, de man in--"
"Stop cryin' yo' big able goat 'n let a body see what's de mattah wit'
yo'," frowned Miss Cragwell; she turned to Bellon. "Go behind de
counter," she said, "an' like a good boy hand me de candle grease yo'
see dey 'pon me chest o' draws."
"Oh, nutton ain't do me--he ain't do me nutton."
"Hey, yo' hear ris alarmer, ni," drawled Mother Cragwell, her lower lip
hanging. "Wha' yo' mekin' all dis noise fo' den?"
A look of revulsion shone on Bellon's face as he returned. "God, she's
black!"
"Oh, Mother Cragwell," the woman pleaded, dropping into a seat, "le' me
tell yo'--"
Every word she uttered was punctuated with jabs of the inevitable
parasol. "The light fool me," she said. "It war so light I bin taught
it wuz morning."
"Yo' mean to say a big able woman like yo' ain't got a clock in yo'
house?"
With difficulty the buckra kept back an oath of amused disgust.
"The light fool me, Ah tell yo'--"
"Yo' got a watch, Mas' Prout, wha' time it are?" asked Mother Cragwell.
He shifted his body to the other side. "Quarter to twelve," he said.
"Hey, it ent even twelve o'clock yet," breathed the black sweating
woman, "an' here I wuz startin' fo' walk to St. Georges. I musta wuz
drunk, an', gal, jess as I tu'n de corner--"
"Wha' corner?"
"Codrington Corner. By the wall. You know--down dey--"
"Ah'm."
"Who should I see standin' up 'gainst dey but a man."
"Lahd, tek me!"
"A man, gal, a man!" She fanned her black eagle face, the sweat
brilliant on it.
"Wuz he alone?"
"Yes, ni."
"An' nobody wuz 'pon de road?"
"Not a blind soul gwine up or comin' down! An' me by meself mekin' fo'
Waterford Bottom!"
"Gal, wha' yo' a do? Try fo' be a buckra?" And she cast an accusing eye
at the white man.
A slow chuckle escaped Bellon as he tapped on his leggings with a black
sage switch.
"Soul, I wuz so frighten I couldn't swallow good. I nearly choke, yes.
But anyway I had my trus' in de Lord--
"Fust I taught it wuz a duppy--one o' de mans in de canes come back fo'
haunt de po' neygah."
"Dey do dat," agreed Mother Cragwell, irrelevantly.
"Well, soul, when I mek de gap fo' tu'n into de gulley somet'ing tell
me fo' change me umbrella from my lef' han' into my right an' my bag
from my right into my lef'."
"Whe' wuz de man all dis time?"
"I put he out o' me taughts, girl. I wuzn't t'inkin' 'bout he. I had my
mind 'pon de Lord an' de goodness o' His wuks--"
"Wha' a foolish ole goat yo' is! Why, girl, I su'prize at you! Wha',
you ain't know any bettah? Wha' de man in de canes got fo' do wit' de
Lawd? He don't care nutton' 'bout he!"
"Well, anyway, when I got down in de gulley it wuz so quiet yo' could
heah de mongoose runnin' in de canes. It wuz so dahk yo' couldn't see
yo' own hand."
"Hey...."
"Den I mek out anudder man cornin' down de road...."
"Me po' Lizzie."
"Down de road. He wuz lightin' he pipe an' walkin' fast."
"Did he see yo'?"
"No, I don't t'ink he see me, but I could see he, dough, an' just ez I
get up to he, I move one side fo' let he pass. An' soul just ez I got
out o' he way, he bump right into somebody walkin' behind me!"
"Gard!"
"De man behine me wuz followin' me, gal, dah's wha' it wuz. Followin'
me all dis time an' dere I wuz wouldn't knowin' it!"
"Yo' lucky, yes."
"Gal, I'm lucky fo' true! Soul, he bump into de man so ha'd de man even
bu'n he mout' wit' de matches."
"An' wha' he do, buss he mout'?"
"De man comin' down de hill ax he pardin, but, soul, yo' should o' hear
how he cuss he! 'Why yo' don't look where yo' gwine,' he shout out,
'yo' t'ink yo' own de road, no?'"
"An' wha' de man say to he?"
"Oh, de man only ax he pardin, an' went 'long 'bout he business."
"Why didn't he look whey he wuz goin'--"
"Shucks, he wuz so bent 'pon wha' he wuz gwine do he couldn't hav' eyes
fo' nobody but me! An' de man humbug he object, dat's all. But wait,
le' me tell yo'. Dah happen down in de gully. An' I went long, ent eben
t'inkin' 'bout no man--"
"Ah tell all you' Seven Day 'Ventists unna is a pack o' nanny goats--"
"When all uva suggen somebody from behind put two long greasy arms
roun' me neck, like he wan' fo' hug me!"
"De Lord hav' mercy!"
"Gal, I wuz so frighten I tek me umbrella an' I jerk it back ovah my
lef' shoulder so ha'd de muscles still a hu't me!"
"Go 'way!"
"Jook! Straight in he eye--"
"Murdah!"
"Deed I did! Wha' business he ha' puttin' he ole nasty claws roun' me!"
"An' what he do, ni?"
"Gal, he le' me go so fas' yo' would 'a' t'ink de lightnin' strike he!
An' I wuz so frighten I tu'n roun' ready fo' hollow fo' blue murder,
but de Lord was wit' me an' He protect me. Fo' girl, he wen' runnin' in
de gutter, pickin' up stones an' shying them at me."
"De wutliss whelp--"
"But girl, like I wuz heah, he was firin' dem ovah yondah! 'Yo' brute,'
he say, 'yo' whelp, yo' wan' to jook out my eye, no! Yo' wan' to mek me
blind, no!' An' all de time he was peltin' an' peltin' de rock stones
at somebody a mile f'um fo'm me!"
"Yo' musta jook he in he eye--"
"Chile, if it wuzn't fo' dis umbrella I wouldn't know where I'd be by
now. It's de Lord's own staff o' life."
With a piercing chuckle the buckra walked to the door. "Well," he
drawled, "I guess I'd better be going. It's getting late."
Abruptly Mother Cragwell rose and went to him. "Yo' still gwine down de
gully, son?" she begged, half-tearfully.
"Oh, don't be sentimental, Mother Cragwell," he said, with good-humor.
"I'll manage somehow."
"Orright, bo," she shrugged, helplessly, "I can't say any mo' to yo',"
and he went forth, loftily.
* * * * *
The mare took the road at a jog and a trot, till the huts grew dim, the
canes and the hedges bushy. The moon was buried in a lake of blue mist
and the marl ate into the animal's hoofs.
The Negro woman's tale excited a magic concern in the buckra.
There was a road opposite the baker shop which led through a dismantled
estate, providing a short cut to Waterford. But Bellon remembered that
it led over a steep gulley range--a tunnel a mile deep--a rattling
river when it rained or stormed--now a rocky cave harboring wild dogs
and lame mules, tusky boars and other, mystic finds.
He evaded it--the old Negress' tale ringing in his ears.
Somber, ruthless--the marl. The mare pawed and sieved it, stones soared
topwards.
The moon burned the mist. It burned it away, leaving but a white crest
of flame fire.
Suddenly, over the earth of gentle winds and sugar canes, balls of
crimson fire plagued the sky! Fire hags at night--St. Lucia sluts,
_obeah_ ridden, shedding their skins and waltzing forth at night
as sheep and goats, on errands of fiery vengeance. Sometimes, on
returning, at the end of the eventful night, they would find their
skins salted--by the enemy--and, unable to ease back into them, the
wretches would inquire, "Skin, skin yo' no know me?" And for the
balance of their thwarted lives they'd go about, half-slave, half-free,
muttering: "Skin yo' no know me, Skin yo' no know me?"
A bright-spirited party of Negro farm folk wrestling up the hill on
basket-laden mules, came into view.
"Howdy, Massa."
"God bless yo' Massa."
"Gwine town, Massa?"
"Be ca'ful--de fire hag dem a prowl 'bout yah, Massa."
He pulled up the horse, puzzled at the spreading of the squirting fire.
"God--fire hags--surely the niggers can't be right."
He turned ashen, the reins in his hands tight, the horse pawing and
pegging the marl understandingly.
The balls of fire subsided, but he was deep in the marl gully and
unable to trace the origin of the pink hazes bursting on the sky's
crest. The wind, however, was a pure carrier of smell, and the tainted
odor of burnt cane filled the road.
"Wonder whose canes they're burning--"
Burning cane--the sky reflecting the distant glow--casks of rum boiling
to waste at the will of some illiterate field hand!
He shouted to the animal.
"Giddup, horse!"
His head went swirling--the temptation to relapse conquered--barbaric
_obeah_ images filled his buckra consciousness.