‘I understand that it is the same work that you formerly performed under the dreadful tyranny of slavery. But you are no longer slaves, you are freemen, and all freemen in England—yes, white men—work for wages. It is the way of the world. And, thanks to the grace of God, you are now free to take your part within that world. You must labour for wages upon Amity with the same enthusiasm as you have worked upon your lands.
‘I have been driven to this action by your refusal to listen to my reasoning and by your defiance to work as I require. But let that all now be at an end. Let us work together to make the plantation named Amity once more the pride of Jamaica, of England, and of her Empire.’
Not one word did James Richards manage to utter of his practised argument before the massa strode in upon the house and closed the door. And all who had marched to parley, then stood in dumbfounded silence before the massa’s sealed home.
Only Dublin, sucking upon his teeth, then saying, ‘Slavery. Slavery has just returned to Amity,’ destroyed their mute reverie. Come, Cornet ran to find the shackle that had once secured him to the wall of the dreaded dungeon. His intention, he said, was to bind his wrists before this white man, whose demands had seized his freedom once more. But Dublin and Giles held him back. There was another way, they told him, a better way.
So upon a heavy, dismal night, a palaver was called within the negro village. It gathered before Peggy and Cornet’s hut, but so many did arrive that the crowd soon pressed into Betsy’s garden. James Richards began by repeating massa’s speech as best he could remember it. But disbelief at Robert Goodwin’s words soon had his congregation chanting, ‘Wha’ him say? . . . No! . . . Him lie . . . no, sah . . . me will not . . . cha . . . me is slave no more . . . it be changy-fe-changy . . . me work what suits.’
While Benjamin, standing upon Peggy Jump’s three-legged stool, begged all to listen to his talk. The minister at his Baptist chapel intended to purchase lands that negroes might work, he told them. Fanny, sucking upon her teeth, said that the minister-man was a white man too. But a man of God, said Benjamin, before the stool did topple him.
Giles then spoke very long about some lands just outside the borders of Amity that could be squatted—lands that were there for anyone to take. And as Giles detailed the trees, the grasses, and the slopes and dips of this soil, Elizabeth Millar repeated over this droning sermon, ‘Massa not speaking true. Massa tell lie and story.’ For, she explained, she still believed the good Queen in England had granted them the gift of their provision grounds.
Dublin then called for hush, but got none. Only when James Richards pressed Ezra to blow the conch was this gathering brought to order. And once the squabbling did wane, this aroused assembly soon began to speak with one voice.
All agreed that those who remained living within the negro village would continue to reside as before. They would work their lands, they would work their gardens, and they would hawk their produce at market. But none would raise even a forged penny to the massa for the renting of their provision grounds, none. No one would pay the rent upon their houses. And, within a solemn oath that was taken by all with joined hands, they agreed that not one person amongst them would work even a day for Robert Goodwin.
CHAPTER 29
‘THIS DAY IS TO serve as a warning to all the negroes of the village,’ was how Robert Goodwin began. ‘You will not be required to evict every negro from their house and provision lands, but just enough to act as example that I, the master of this plantation, mean to deliver upon my word; that those who have not paid their rent must now work for me, or be removed from their dwellings and grounds.’
July had once cautioned Robert Goodwin to be mindful that negroes were not as biddable as perhaps he and his papa believed. She had whispered it upon him within the closeness of their bed. He had laughed and teased that her own naughtiness towards him made him very aware of that. But as he stood there, resolute upon the veranda before the mishmash gang of white men he had summoned from around the parish to assist him with the evicting of negroes from Amity, July wished she had given him that lesson with more urgency. For his right hand, that he held hidden behind his back, was uncontrollably trembling as he spoke.
‘Are we to burn them out?’ was shouted by a rude white man who was picking his front teeth with a sharpened stick.
Robert Goodwin’s fist landed upon the veranda’s rail heavy as a fallen stone. ‘No,’ he said, ‘do not burn down the houses for they will be needed again once the negroes have agreed to return to working.’
The bafflement at this soft command appeared on every face that heard it, while the panic of seeming weak before this assembly suddenly lit within Robert Goodwin’s eyes. July, seeing his distress, thought to run down amongst that impudent mob, grab a few by the throat and rage upon them to listen up—for him, Robert Goodwin, her husband, was a better man than all who now looked upon him—so them must heed him and do as him say.
But there was no need of her meddling, for he did not betray his worry to that audience, but wiped his arm across the perspiration upon his forehead to shield them from it. He then held his trembling hand within the other, behind his back, and rocked upon his toes to proclaim, ‘But you can throw any of their belongings out into the lanes. And kick over the fires. Scatter any animals. And keep as many chickens as you can find.’
His gaze briefly met July’s before he carried on with greater confidence, ‘Make sure any pigs or goats are shot. I do not want them screeching their way into the fields. You can trample any crops that might be in a garden, but do not burn them.’ Most within this rabble did begin to grin at the promise of such sport. But when Robert Goodwin added,
‘Use your weapons with care—I want no one accidentally maimed or killed,’ the eyes that were heeding him did suddenly begin to roll. ‘Many of you have done this before and do not need my instruction. Make as much noise as you can,’ he said. ‘They will be mostly women, the superannuated, children, lame males, for I intend for the able-bodied to be putting out the fires upon their grounds.’ And the shouts of approval that rose from the pack steadied Robert Goodwin’s hand enough for him to raise it to appeal for hush so his plan might be better heard.
‘Because that is how this will all start,’ he said. ‘I have here a map which I have drawn myself,’ and he beckoned to July to perform the task he had asked of her before the crowd assembled. July grabbed Elias to shove him forward with the map that he had requested her to hold up. As Robert Goodwin began to point at this chart, his hand once more began to shake until, again, it was hidden.
‘Well, you may all step up and look at it when I have finished addressing you. First you must ride out to these provision lands—I will allocate who is to go where—and once you arrive upon them, see that they are burned to the ground. If the crop is wet and won’t burn, then just destroy it any way you can. You may shoot any cattle or livestock, or drive them out. But do not run them into any cane fields. While those negroes are busy saving their crops and cattle, it is then we will go in and evict enough from the village to bring those obstinate ingrates back to obedience.’
Having finished his instruction, Robert Goodwin then pressed this restless group to bow their heads to join him in prayer. ‘Almighty God,’ he began, ‘who desireth not the death of a sinner, but rather that he may turn from his wickedness and live—grant us this day the blessing to turn the negroes of Amity back from sin, to the path of righteousness, so that they will labour once more upon this plantation, as is your divine will. Amen.’