CHAPTER 28
THE OLD DISTILLER-MAN who toiled within the boiling house, Dublin Hilton, was one day wandering up near the great house when he did spy a white man with a fancy feathered hat upon his head. This man, standing still and erect as a doorpost, was wiping a small brush upon a large board that was resting stout upon an easel. Dublin Hilton, approaching upon this man from behind, did strain his neck to see what this man was doing. Painting a picture, Dublin soon said to himself. For there upon that board was a good likeness of Miss July (serving up something), a not-too-bad copy of the new massa, and a white woman resting upon a seat who looked like the missus—but nah, for she was too narrow.
After watching this man for a long while, Dublin Hilton soon came to think that this must be the artist he had heard so much chat-chat of. Leaning upon a stick Dublin dallied awhile longer, observing the artist painting the view of the lands of Amity into the background of this picture. One strange picture, Dublin was to tell everyone later. For the artist-man was looking down the hill and over the scruffy thatched tops of the houses within the negro village.
Now Dublin Hilton stood only a few feet behind the artist and yet this white man, gazing out with frowning absorption upon the view before him, time after time painted another bush where Dublin could clearly see the higgledy-piggledy of the negro village.
Soon Dublin approached this man with the question, ‘Pardon me, massa, but you can no see the negro dwellings?’
‘All too clearly. Now, be off with you, nigger,’ was the reply Dublin Hilton received.
However, Dublin being no longer a slave (and a man who had no need to dabble a skimmer to see if liquor would granulate), decided that now he was a free man he was able to enquire anything of this white man he desired. So he posed his question once more. The artist-man, with a heavy sigh, then told the old boiler-man that he admired the view of the lands from that position, but had no intention of including the disgusting negro hovels.
‘But they are there before you,’ said Dublin Hilton to he. At which the artist barked upon him, that no one wished to find squalid negroes within a rendering of a tropical idyll, before promising Dublin that he would set his dog upon him if he did not leave him alone.
‘But you paint an untruth,’ said Dublin Hilton.
And the artist-man did stamp his foot and scream upon the old man, ‘What business is it of yours? Away with you, nigger, away!’
Now, according to Dublin Hilton, it was just after this encounter with the artist-man that the trouble with the new massa, Robert Goodwin, did begin. However, Peggy Jump did not agree. She recalled that the massa Goodwin had already rode in upon the village to pull Ezra from out his house by his hair before she had heard the story of the artist-man. But Cornet, Peggy’s husband, agreed with Dublin. He remembered that day well. The day when the massa, caught in a devilish rage, shook Ezra like a dog with a rat for neither labouring, nor paying his rent. Come, how could Cornet forget, for he had raised a stick to the massa, yelling upon him to let Ezra go or else he would thrash him with it. And even though the massa soon calmed himself and pulled Ezra to his feet, that white man’s clear blue eyes, staring anger upon him, still haunted Cornet’s mind’s eye when he slept.
But Cornet remembered chatting with Dublin Hilton long before that day, upon the change in the overseer since he became the massa by marriage, and he was sure it was then Dublin had told him of the picture, the artist and the missing negro village. For Cornet thought the artist a cunning man to turn his eye blind to those run-down negro places.
No, the trouble had started at Christmas tide, when Robert Goodwin had sent the driver, Mason Jackson, to round up all the negroes still residing upon Amity and gather them into the mill yard. Cornet recalled that to press this gathering to move faster the driver had fired his whip. And one commotion did break out as Giles Millar and Betsy wrested that slaving cow-skin from out that dog-driver’s hand. They were slaves no more, they yelled upon him, and would dance to no lash! They threw his whip into the river and would have drowned the driver too, but the massa Goodwin had already begun to speak.
There were three fields of cane that must be taken off, the massa told everyone from atop his barrels. Those that worked to bring in this crop would be paid a full day’s wage for a full day’s toil. Come, he smiled, as he urged all to work hard over the coming days so the cane might be brought in.
But it was Christmas. Most before him were dressed in their fine holiday clothes. For example, Miss Sarah, from the first gang, had been making her costume for the Joncanoe festival in town for the whole year. She was a blue girl. As Britannia, she was to be paraded along King’s Street with a trident in her hand and a helmet made in blue silk and silver upon her head. Long time had she waited for the honour of raising the banner that said, ‘Blue girls for ever’. So no, she would not work the two off-days of Christmas.
And Peggy and Cornet had their daughter (the one who was sold away), upon a visit with them. They had not seen her pretty face for many years. She had walked with her little pickney from far, far away, and had arrived just as Peggy and Cornet were finally packed up to leave, to seek out her. So they would not work at Christmas, for they had already killed and plucked three chickens for this joyful holiday. And Mary Ellis, who still did live with Peggy and Cornet, had no intention of missing that feast. Nor did Ezra wish to lose those two off-days from his provision ground as his cow was about to calf.
Soon the massa Goodwin was staring upon nothing but shaking negro heads. And the words, ‘No, massa . . . no, massa . . . not me, massa . . . no, sah . . . no, sah,’ were called out to him. Several times, massa Goodwin looked to be about to plead or say something. But no words came to him—he just stood with his mouth agape.
After most had moved out of the mill yard to go about their business, the massa approached Benjamin Brown, who was untying his mule from the fence. The massa Goodwin smiling upon Benjamin said, ‘Oh, my old faithful Benjamin. I knew you would be willing to work. I knew you would not let me down.’
Benjamin, however, then began to tell the massa that no, he could not work over Christmas as he was to assist the minister at his chapel . . . But the massa did not let him finish. According to Benjamin, the massa turned suddenly away from him, ill-tempered and muttering, ‘Ungrateful, indolent wretches!’ or some such bluster, before mounting his horse and riding away.
Fanny, who worked the second gang, claimed that Robert Goodwin, returning to them after Christmas, had his face once more set kindly. When he appeared at her door she enquired of his new pickney. She remembers it well for, as soon as she asked after his daughter Emily, his face reddened. Fanny then realised that perhaps this white man wished no one to know that Miss July’s girl-child was his own. However, this friendly mood was spoiled when the massa then commanded her to work for him, and be paid by the task.
Once all the cane from Virgo had been stripped, she would receive her wage, the massa told her. Now, Fanny had heard too many negroes complain that they had stripped cane for a week, to receive only a day’s pay. What negro upon Friendship plantation or at Unity, or Montpelier, or Windsor Hall, or any of the planted lands upon the island did agree to work by the task? None! She would not work by the task for, like a dog who will be fed once he has caught his own tail, the task might go on forever. And this she told the massa. And so did Anne and Elizabeth, Betsy and Nancy. Soon everyone upon Amity that the massa commanded to work at this task told him ‘no’. No! They will work by the day, and by the day alone as they had done before.