Fish, lured onto the glimmering ends of loaded lines, raged in
fruitless fury; tore, snarled gutturally, for release; bloodied patches
of the hard blue sea; left crescents of gills on green and silvery
hooks. Some, big and fat as young oxen, raved for miles on the shining
blue sea, snapping and snarling acrobatically. For a stretch of days,
the _Wellington_ left behind a scarlet trail.
* * * * *
He was back in Black Rock; a dinky backward village; the gap rocky
and grassy, the roads dusty and green-splashed; the marl, in the dry
season, whirling blindly at you; the sickly fowls dying of the pip and
the yaws; the dogs, a row-rowing, impotent lot; the crops of dry peas
and cassava and tannias and eddoes, robbed, before they could feel
the pulse of the sun, of their gum or juice; the goats, bred on some
jealous tenant's cane shoots, or guided some silken black night down
a planter's gully--and then only able to give a little bit of milk;
the rain, a whimsical rarity. And then the joys, for a boy of eight--a
dew-sprayed, toe-searching tramp at sunrise for "touched" fruit dropped
in the night by the epicurean bats, almonds, mangoes, golden apples;
dreaming of the day when the cocoanut tree planted at a particularly
fecund part of the ground would grow big enough to bear fruit; waiting,
in the flush of sowing time, for a cart loaded to the brim to roll
rhythmically over the jarring stones and spill a potato or a yam. After
silence had again settled over the gap, he'd furtively dash out on the
road and seize it and roast it feverishly on a waiting fire; he'd pluck
an ear of corn out of the heap his mother'd bring up from the patch
to send to town, and roast it, and stuff it hot as it was in his tiny
pants pocket and then suffer excruciating rheumatic pains in his leg
days afterwards.
Usually on a hike to Bridgetown Sarah would stop at the Oxleys' on
Westbury Road. Charlie Oxley was a half-brother of hers. Once he had
the smallpox and the corrugations never left him. He was broad and
full-bellied and no matter how hot it was he wore severe black serge.
He was a potato broker, and a man of religious intelligence.
He had, by as many wives, two girls--and they were as lovely as fine
spun silk. But Suttle Street, a pagan's retreat, was hardly a place
for them so they were sent to Codrington to absorb the somber sanctity
of the Moravian Mission. Now there came to crown the quiet manor on
Westbury Road, another mistress, a pretty one, herself a mother of two
crimson blown girls, _the quintessence of a spring mating_. They were a
divine puzzle to Oxley. It was queer that their fathers, both firemen
on a Bristol tramp, now blissfully ensconced in the heart of the Indian
Ocean, had forgotten to return to tickle and fondle their pure white
faces....
It had happened in a peculiar way. And all through a silly love of
song. Why did she ever encourage such a feeling? The legend of it was
fast taking its place beside the parish's scandals of incest. Sea
songs; songs sailor-men sang; ballads of the engine room and the
stokehole; ditties fashioned out of the crusted sweat of firemen. Ah,
it went beyond the lure of the moment. Bowing to it, she'd go, the
lovely whelp, to wharf and deck when sunset was spreading a russet mist
over the dusky delta of Barbadoes and give herself up to the beauty of
song. Greedily songs go to the heart; go to the heart of women. It was
bad enough being maid at a grog shop on a bawdy street and the upsquirt
of a thundering Scot and an African maiden, but it was worse when the
love of songs of the deep, led one at dusk, at dark, to descending
stairs to stokeholes or to radiant night-walks on the spotless fringe
of Hastings.
Mosquito one
Mosquito two
Mosquito jump in de ole man shoe.
At last, song-scorning, no more a slinger of ale, she had crawled,
losing none of the primal passion she had formerly dazzled him with,
over to Oxley's--to fatten on a succession of gorgeous nights of
deep-sea singing and unquestionable sailoring.
Meditating on the joys attendant to the experience of seeing the Oxleys
there came to little Gerald's mind the vision of soup. Rock-hard crabs,
tight-fisted dumplings, little red peppers, Cayenne peppers, used all
to be in it. Sometimes there would be seasoning it _hossah_ or _corass_
and parsley and white eddoes. And when they left, Mr. Oxley always gave
Sarah a bag of potatoes to take home; but she was a lady and proud and
it pained her to take it home on her head; but one of the neighbors,
who had a donkey cart which came to town each day, would stop by and
get it for her.
One forenoon when the sun was firing the hills of Black Rock, she had
hurriedly decided to visit the Oxleys. To every one, down to the idiot
Lynchee King, he of the maw worm, it was clear that something was
tugging at Sarah Bright's throat.
To Gerald it was a quickening ordeal. All along the gap they went;
up St. Stephen's Road--the birds brilliant-plumaged in the ripening
cornfields--past the Gothic exterior of the Chapel to a steep decline
where the hilly road was crowned by the falling leaves of a giant
evergreen tree whose roots spread to every point of the compass. Up
the road, the sun bright as a scimitar, the inexorable dust-marl heavy
on them; past cow pens and meadows; past shops and cottages where folk
inquisitively spied at them through half-shut jalousies. Then past the
Mad House and Wolmer Lodge, a branch of the Plymouth Brethren, where
Sarah "broke bread" and Gerald slept; up to Eagle Hall Corner and
onward down to the roaring city. On the way he'd lift his piteous eyes
to her sobbing face and implore, "Don't cry, mama, don't cry, God will
provide for us."
At the Oxleys' the tension slackened. It was easing to be there. They
had a big, pretty house, plenty to eat, and the girls were lovely as
the flowers whose fragrance was a dewy delight to the boy.
Again it was some sort of soup, fish soup, and the sensation of a
hearty meal helped considerably to dissipate Gerald's concern over the
things agitating his mother.
After dinner he and the girls, Vi and Rupertia, slid to the floor to
play. A Bible was their toy. On their lips the letters of the word
_contents_ made a lascivious jingle. _Charlie open 'nen's t'ing ent
'nen's ting sweet._ Caught in their own impishness, they clapped their
hands over their mouths, shutting off the laughter, and rocked against
each other in riotous glee.
"Hey, Sarah, duh ought to lock he up, yes. Hey, you would 'a' t'ink a
man wid fi' chirrun would ha' a bit o' conscience. W'en yo' say yo'
hear from 'e las'?"
"June--le' mah see," snuffled Mrs. Bright, diving in her hand bag,
"yes--it is June. June will be eight months sense Oi las' hear from 'e."
"An' yo' mean fo' tell muh," cried Mr. Oxley, his incredible eyes big
and white, "dat dah neygah man ent ha' de graciousness in 'e 'art fuh
sen' yo' a ha'penny fuh de chirrun awl dis time?"
"No, Charlie."
"Gord! Dah man muss be got de heart uv a brute!"
"He must be fuhget we, Charlie."
"Wuh, moy Gord, yo' don' even fuhget ah doig yo' fling a bone to, much
mo' a big fambaly like yo' got dey. Fuhget yo'?"
"He must be," wept Mrs. Bright, swallowing hard, but Gerald was too
impassioned himself to rise or let the girls share his sorrow.
"But wha' yo' gwine do, ni, Sarah? Wha' yuh gwine do? Yo' an' all dese
chirrun yo' get dey, ni?"
"Oi ent stop fuh t'ink, Charlie, to tell yo' de troot. But de Lord will
provide Charlie, Oi is get my truss in Him."
"But wha' kin de Lord do fo' yo' now yo' doan heah fum dat woofless
vargybin?"
"Ev'yt'ing wuks togeddah fuh dem dat truss in de Lorrd. Oi'll manage
somehow. Oi'll scratch meself togeddah. De lil' bit o' money Oi get fum
de house an' de piece o' lan' will jus' buy me an' Gerald ticket. Now
all Oi is axin' yo' fo' do is put up de show money. Oi ent wan' no mo'.
Dah is anuff. An' as de Lord is in heaven Oi'll pos' it back tuh yo'
when the boat land at Colon."
"An' wuh yo' gwine do wit' de chirrun, ni, Sarah? Wuh yuh gwine do wit'
dum?"
"Oi got Rosa fuh look aftah dem fo' me, bo. Yo' know Peony is wid she
evah sense de holliduhs, an' she don't even wan' fuh come way, de
ownway t'ing. But, yo' know, Charlie, Oi can't blame de chirrun, ni. Um
ent nutton home fuh duh. Rosa is berry well satified fi' hav' she, aldo
me can't say she ah happy riddance. No, not at all. Well, an de uddah
gyrls, it gwine be ha'd 'pon dem, but Rosa house on Coloden Road is big
enough fee tek cyah ah all uh dem, an' Mistah Foyrd only come home once
a mont'. Rosa so lonesome, an' she so like de picknee dem. She will
tek cyah uh dem fuh muh till Oi sen' back fuh dem. An' Oi only takin'
Gerald wit' muh, po' fellah."
"Oi gotto go," she went on, in a hollow, dejected voice, "an' see wha'
de mattah wit' Lucian. Oi can' go 'long tyin' mi guts no mo'. Oi too
tired."
"Hey, but dah is a beast uv a man fuh yo', ni!" muttered Oxley in
incredible outrage.
"Yo' know, sometimes Oi t'ink he muss be sick--"
"Sick?" he flew up, like a hen striking at a mongoose. "Dah man sick?
Gyrl, hush up yuh mout'! Dah man sick? He ent sick no 'way! If he was
sick doan yuh tink de nurse in de horspitral can write a letter even
fuh a shillin' fuh he? Gyrl, go talk sense, ni! Dah man ent sick. He
is jess a wufless stinkin' good fuh nutton vargybin' who ent learn
fuh tek cyah uh he fambaly, dah is wuh he is! Oi tell yuh 'bout dese
fancy mud-head men! Ent a blind one o' dem any blasted good! A pack o'
rum-drinkin', skirt-chasin' scoundrels--dah's wuh duh is! Dey ort tuh
lock he up, dey ort tuh get he 'n roast he behind fuh he--"
"Charlie!"
"Wha' Oi doin'? Ent um is de troot, ent um?"
"Oi ent gwine giv' up hope, Charlie, Oi still got my truss in de Lord."
"Yuh is ah bettah uman dan Oi is ah man, Oi know."
"If um is de will uh de Lord fuh me tuh suffer like dis, Oi is willin'.
Didn't Christ die on Calvary's Cross tuh save yuh an' me an' Lucian--"
"Who, dat vargybun', don't put 'e 'long side o' me, Oi ent wan' none
o' 'e nasty self fi' tetch me."
Some one intruded upon them. Sarah wiped away a tear. It was difficult
to be there, denuding herself before that woman and her saucy girl
children.
She came in, one of the girls at her side. "Hexcuse me, Charlie, but
wuh yo' say, le' dem go?"
"Go weh?" he roared suddenly looking up.
"_To de fungshan_, no?" she replied, scornful of his brilliant memory.
"Chu," he said, turning back to Sarah, and staring at her searchingly,
"All de time sochalizin', sochalizin'." He swiveled back round "Ah say
no! Yo' heah? No! Dem a stay in de house!"
"But it no a gineral saht o' shindig," she pleaded, "it a Miss
Coaltrass dawtah what a hav' it."
"Ah don't giv' a dam pity hell who dawtah a hav' it--dem n'ah go!"
"But Charlie--don't!"
"Me don' mean fi' insult yo', Sarah, wit' me nasty tongue, but yo'
mus' excuse me. But dese pahties dem 'nuf fi' mek Christ hesell bre'k
loose."
"But me don't tink it are much--"
"Dem n'ah go--dat a sure t'ing! Could as well put it in yo' pipe an'
smoke it! Saht'n fact! Dem tek up wit' too much gwine out orready. Wha'
ah mo', dat Miss Persha, dem low-neck dress she ah wear, dem gwine giv'
ar cold, too, yo' mahk ah fi'-mee wud."
"Wha' time it hav' let out, Persha?"
"Early, mam."
"Oh, le' de picknee dem go, Charlie, yo' too a'd on de gal chile dem."
"Dat's juss why me don't wan' dem fo' go. Awl yo' go out o' dis house
at all howahs o' de night time, like unna is any umans, disregardin'
whatevah awdahs dere is. Look at dat Miss Persha, she bin gwine out
eve'y night dis week. Wha' she a go so? Wha' she a fine place fi' go
so? But no mind; wait till me catch she, yo' wait."
"Dat a fac', Charlie, me hagree wit' yo' dey, me gwine put my foot down
once an' far-all 'pon dem trampoosin's."
"Well, let de rascals dem go dis time."