desire. Do not, however, read the pamphlet written by the planter John Hoskin. For the man is a fool who does blame only the sons of Ham and men of God for what occurred. None of my readers should look upon that time through his view. I know this sort of man’s character, and his eyes would clearly be shut to all but his own consequence. Conflict and change. A view from the great house of slaves, slavery and the British Empire is the pamphlet you must run from. If you do read it and find your head nodding in agreement at this man’s bluster, then away with you—for I no longer wish you as my reader.
What I do know is that when those fires raged like beacons from plantation and pen; when regiments marched and militias mustered; when slaves took oaths upon the Holy Bible to fight against white people with machete, stick and gun; when the bullets sparked like deadly fireflies; and bare black feet ran nimble through grass, wood and field—at Amity, the loudest thing your storyteller could hear was Miss Hannah gnawing upon the missus’s discarded ham bone.
CHAPTER 10
‘ N O BIG BLACK NIGGER gonna get past me, missus,’ July said, holding up her fists so her missus might see those two fearful weapons—that were, alas, no bigger than ripe plums.
Three days, Caroline Mortimer had been alone in the great house, with only her company of house servants. At first, the missus had been more concerned with raving at Godfrey over the dirty bed sheet upon the dining table, and wagging her finger upon July to note that if she had been stealing, as the massa from Windsor Hall had accused her, then she was lucky to have escaped punishment by his hand, than considering her uneasy plight.
But as the sweaty, humid hours lumbered past her and no white face appeared to give her a civilised view upon the situation; as the horizon to the west became lit with a faint dash of quivering pink light; as the horn of a conch blew unwonted first from far, then from near; as dogs howled over there, over here; as the moon began once more to light her familiar view with a peculiar gloom and still no word from her brother, Caroline at last realised that perhaps she should fret.
‘Is there any word yet?’ she asked July.
‘No be frettin’, missus,’ July replied, ‘for you is alone with no white people near to calm you—no massa, no friend, no bakkra—for no nigger gon’ come near, missus, when me two fists is raised so.’ Caroline’s face now carried such fright within its features that July was reminded of a pig just before a keen blade slit its throat; for her blue eyes protruded with the same soon-meet-thy-maker dread. But her missus had not yet squealed with an equal passion.
So, suddenly cupping her hand to her ear, July said in a loud whisper, ‘But listen, missus, listen. Me can hear a horse riding close.’ July then ran to the window and pressed her face and hands upon the panes of glass. ‘Me can’t see who comes, missus. But no fret,’ she shouted. ‘No fret for, look see, me two fists is raised. Them no take you from me, missus.’
‘Is it my brother?’ the missus asked.
As July peered out into the night light, the hazy form of the horse and rider came into her view. After disappearing behind the solid bricks of the counting house, the tiny form reappeared nearer the kitchen and the rider of the horse was caught in a flash of moonlight—for he was dressed all in white.
Nimrod. July knew the rider could only be Nimrod. And oh, what breath of joy she found. Nimrod had come from town!
Like a shadow show upon a wall, July watched Byron’s black shape run to hold Nimrod’s horse as he, bright as a star in this play, dismounted, patting Byron’s head and shooing away Lady the dog as she jumped up upon him. Godfrey’s lanky outline then drifted in—his hand outstretched. Nimrod patted Godfrey upon the back and leaned in to whisper in his ear, but then straightened when Molly arrived skipping around as
What I do know is that when those fires raged like beacons from plantation and pen; when regiments marched and militias mustered; when slaves took oaths upon the Holy Bible to fight against white people with machete, stick and gun; when the bullets sparked like deadly fireflies; and bare black feet ran nimble through grass, wood and field—at Amity, the loudest thing your storyteller could hear was Miss Hannah gnawing upon the missus’s discarded ham bone.
CHAPTER 10
‘ N O BIG BLACK NIGGER gonna get past me, missus,’ July said, holding up her fists so her missus might see those two fearful weapons—that were, alas, no bigger than ripe plums.
Three days, Caroline Mortimer had been alone in the great house, with only her company of house servants. At first, the missus had been more concerned with raving at Godfrey over the dirty bed sheet upon the dining table, and wagging her finger upon July to note that if she had been stealing, as the massa from Windsor Hall had accused her, then she was lucky to have escaped punishment by his hand, than considering her uneasy plight.
But as the sweaty, humid hours lumbered past her and no white face appeared to give her a civilised view upon the situation; as the horizon to the west became lit with a faint dash of quivering pink light; as the horn of a conch blew unwonted first from far, then from near; as dogs howled over there, over here; as the moon began once more to light her familiar view with a peculiar gloom and still no word from her brother, Caroline at last realised that perhaps she should fret.
‘Is there any word yet?’ she asked July.
‘No be frettin’, missus,’ July replied, ‘for you is alone with no white people near to calm you—no massa, no friend, no bakkra—for no nigger gon’ come near, missus, when me two fists is raised so.’ Caroline’s face now carried such fright within its features that July was reminded of a pig just before a keen blade slit its throat; for her blue eyes protruded with the same soon-meet-thy-maker dread. But her missus had not yet squealed with an equal passion.
So, suddenly cupping her hand to her ear, July said in a loud whisper, ‘But listen, missus, listen. Me can hear a horse riding close.’ July then ran to the window and pressed her face and hands upon the panes of glass. ‘Me can’t see who comes, missus. But no fret,’ she shouted. ‘No fret for, look see, me two fists is raised. Them no take you from me, missus.’
‘Is it my brother?’ the missus asked.
As July peered out into the night light, the hazy form of the horse and rider came into her view. After disappearing behind the solid bricks of the counting house, the tiny form reappeared nearer the kitchen and the rider of the horse was caught in a flash of moonlight—for he was dressed all in white.
Nimrod. July knew the rider could only be Nimrod. And oh, what breath of joy she found. Nimrod had come from town!
Like a shadow show upon a wall, July watched Byron’s black shape run to hold Nimrod’s horse as he, bright as a star in this play, dismounted, patting Byron’s head and shooing away Lady the dog as she jumped up upon him. Godfrey’s lanky outline then drifted in—his hand outstretched. Nimrod patted Godfrey upon the back and leaned in to whisper in his ear, but then straightened when Molly arrived skipping around as
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