“Ghost of a chance of what?” I demanded, swept away by his curious rhetoric.
“Changing my ways,” he spoke mildly and indifferently. “Not being so beastly and involved in my own devil’s schemes any more. Perhaps there’s a ghost of a chance that I can find a different relationship with the folk, who knows? Nothing to lose anyway by trying. I suppose it’s what I’ve always really wanted.” He spoke absentmindedly now, stooping to the fire and helping himself to a plate of fish. “God,” he said to himself, eating with sudden awareness and appetite, “I am damnably hungry” — brooding a little as he ate, his face growing severe as of old, spoilt, hard, childish with an old obsession and desire. He tapped me on the chest turning ruthless and charming and smiling. “Of course I cannot afford to lean too far backwards (or is it forwards?) can I? Balance and perspective, eh, Boy? Look what’s happened now. Nearly everybody just vamoosed, vanished. They’re as thoughtless and irresponsible as hell. I was lucky to find even this old bitch” — he pointed to the old Arawak woman — “still hanging around. You can never trust these Bucks you know but she seems harmless enough. Isn’t it a fantastic joke that I have to bargain with them and think of them at all?” He spoke bitterly and incredulously. “Who would believe that these devils have title to the savannahs and to the region? A stupid legacy — aboriginal business and all that nonsense: but there it is. I’ve managed so far to make a place for myself — spread out myself amply as it were — and in a couple of years I shall have firm prescriptive title myself. If”, he spoke bitterly again, “these Indians start to kick up the world of a rumpus now it could be embarrassing and I may have to face costly litigation in the courts down there” — he pointed across the wrinkled map of the Arawak woman’s face in the vague direction of the Atlantic Ocean as towards a scornful pool in heaven — “to hold my own, not to speak of forfeiting a cheap handsome source of labour. It’s all so blasted silly and complicated. After all I’ve earned a right here as well. I’m as native as they, ain’t I? A little better educated maybe whatever in hell that means. They call me sir and curse me when I’m not looking.” He licked his lips and smiled. “The only way to survive of course is to wed oneself into the family. In fact I belong already.” His brow wrinkled a little and he pointed to his dark racial skin. “As much as Schomburgh or Cameron or anybody.” He could not help laughing, a sudden set laugh like a mask.
“We’re all outside of the folk,” I said musingly. “Nobody belongs yet….”
“Is it a mystery of language and address?” Donne asked quickly and mockingly.
“Language, address?” I found it hard to comprehend what he meant. “There is one dreaming language I know of …” I rebuked him … “which is the same for every man …. No it’s not language. It’s … it’s” … I searched for words with a sudden terrible rage at the difficulty I experienced … “it’s an inapprehension of substance,” I blurted out, “an actual fear … fear of life … fear of the substance of life, fear of the substance of the folk, a cannibal blind fear in oneself. Put it how you like,” I cried, “it’s fear of acknowledging the true substance of life. Yes, fear I tell you, the fear that breeds bitterness in our mouth, the haunting sense of fear that poisons us and hangs us and murders us. And somebody,” I declared, “must demonstrate the unity of being, and show …” I had grown violent and emphatic … “that fear is nothing but a dream and an appearance … even death …” I stopped abruptly.
Donne was not listening to my labour and expression and difficulty. He already knew by heart my unpredictable outbursts and attacks and inmost frenzy. Old Schomburgh and the Arawak woman stood at his side.
“What does she say?” he demanded. “You know the blasted Buck talk.”
Old Schomburgh cleared his throat. He disciplined his voice to reply with the subservience of a shrewd labouring man. “They reach far away by now,” he said awkwardly. “They moving quick and they know the trails.”
“We must follow and overtake them,” Donne said promptly.
“They accustom to move at this season, sir,” Schomburgh spoke like a man making an obscure excuse. “Some kind of belief to do with the drought — once in seven year it bound to curse the land ….” He paused and cleared his throat again.
“What’s this to do with me Schomburgh?” Donne demanded.
“By Christmas when the hard time blow over they come back.” Schomburgh spoke brokenly. “They gone to look for rain to plant easy-easy younder.” He pointed. “By Christmas they come back.” He stopped and I saw the light of uncertainty in his eye. “Perhaps we best to wait right here for them to come back, sir?” he pleaded.
“Are you mad, Schomburgh?” Donne cried. “Listen Uncle,” it was his turn to plead and throw all stiffness to the winds, “find out — you know the Buck lingo — how we can catch up. I must have help in a month’s time at latest, and that’s long-long before you dream to see them back. Why the drought nearly done, and I got to have labour for my estate, my new rice planting, my cattle, everything. The folk just all can’t bloody well run away. It’s a hell of a superstitious unreasonableness. O Christ, don’t look so sad man, ask her.”
“She tell me already,” Schomburgh cried awkwardly. “If we follow the river we going catch up in seven day time at a place where they bound to ford the water….”
“Why in hell you didn’t say so before?” Donne laughed and cried.
“Look, you going to you death,” Schomburgh shouted and threatened suddenly. “To you death I say. I know. The river bad like a devil topside of this Mission. I know.” It was an involuntary croaking outburst of which he grew instantly ashamed.
Jennings, the mechanic, wiped his hands nervously on his pants. “Is true, sir,” he addressed Donne. “Is a dangerous time of the year to venture higher. Look what a bad time we had already.”
“You fellows losing your fire or what?” Donne shot at him. “I thought this was a crew when we started.”
“I vote to go,” the daSilva twin exclaimed who had helped Cameron.
Jennings turned furious. “You potagee fool,” he cried, “shut you mouth for a change. I is a young married man, two kiddy, and an old sick mother to mend….” He was no longer wiping his hands on his pants but pointing a black angry finger in daSilva’s face.
“I thought you knew all of that at the beginning,” Donne shouted cold and sharp. “Look here, did you, or did you not, tell me you joined us because you were fed up — anything for a clean break? You wanted the water-top again you said. I pointed out how dangerous a season it was and you said you knew. You had had a narrow escape before, you had escaped by the skin of your teeth, you said. But it hadn’t frightened you, you said. In fact when you felt you were dying you knew what a cowardly waste your life was. Anything was better you promised yourself than living again with a harridan and a shrew. Those were your words. Now tell me, Jennings do you wish us to stay right here and rot?” His voice had grown wretched and powerful. He knew he had to hold the crew to his side or he was lost.