Godfrey, on the other hand, could not endure that Nimrod—black as sin, ugly, sly, rough, rude and no taller than a girl—was free. For Nimrod’s manumission was purchased with cunning. He poached from the massa—from behind his back and before his eyes—to raise that precious cash. Nimrod was noted in town for the dances he held. Come, Nimrod was known as the first steward of these occasions. Godfrey had told the massa this. He also made the massa aware that the knives, forks, plates and candles used at Nimrod’s parties were all supplied from the stores at Amity, as was the wine, spirits and often a bottle or two of champagne. Godfrey showed the massa the cards that Nimrod had printed to use as invitation (and costly ticket) to his regular guests—a promiscuous crowd of all colours—to come once more to his ‘club’ (on some back street in town) for an evening of ‘quadrille and merriment’. Godfrey even enquired of the massa if he had ever noticed that, on the days that his horse seemed to require a lot of resting, his fine damask waistcoat and linen jacket were often missing, only to appear later in need of a wash. Yet the massa paid no heed to Godfrey’s enlightenment—come, he rolled his eyes at the preposterous nature of it. For John Howarth was wholly convinced that his trusted groom, Nimrod—with his bow legs, crossed eyes and silly, toothless grin—was far too stupid to concoct such devious arrangements. And nothing Godfrey could say did change his massa’s belief.

Godfrey was loyal and yes, he had begun of late cheating the missus a little by telling her that produce was dearer than he knew to be true. But what did it matter? He was still a slave and Nimrod was free to fart in his face.

And yet these two warring men sought out each other’s company for they believed themselves to be like brothers. As few at Amity had any notion of how brothers behaved to each other, in that kitchen being a brother had come to mean two men in constant, bloody fight.

But on this occasion Godfrey just gestured to Patience and July to once more sit, for there would be no blows or cussing today. He then stared upon Nimrod and smiled. In the silence that followed this curious truce, the missus’s voice was heard calling out for Marguerite. Nimrod, hearing this hoarse but plaintive mewl frowned, ‘What, your missus still here?’ he said.

‘Why not?’ answered Godfrey.

‘The massa gone to militia, but the missus still be here? She is not safe,’ said Nimrod.

‘Oh come, there been plenty-plenty trouble like this before,’ said Godfrey.

‘No, Mr Godfrey, there never been trouble like this.’

Godfrey sighed. ‘What fuss-fuss.’

‘Mr Godfrey, come, let me tell you—I have not seen a white person in town for many days.’

‘No say.’

‘Me speak true. Some say they all gone.’

‘Gone!’ Godfrey said, ‘Where they all go to?’

‘Some say them all sailed away when all this trouble start. Them pack up them belongings and leave the island, for they be frighted by the negroes that live all about them.’ Godfrey sucked his teeth while Nimrod looked upon his face as if staring upon a firm friend.

‘Is true, Mr Godfrey. The island is ablaze.’ Godfrey, seeing Nimrod’s concern leaned back and yawned.

‘You no feared?’ Nimrod asked him.

‘What I must be feared of?’

‘That them negroes fighting for them freedom come here with gun and wan’ you join them. Them no say, “Oh, please,” all nice-nice. “Oh, please, come help us burn and bust up this place till we is all free.” Them say, “You come or we burn the house, you come or we kill your missus.” ’

Godfrey, staring silent upon Nimrod, heeded his words with no feeling, ‘If they come for the missus, they can have her,’ he said.

July gasped, ‘Mr Godfrey, no say that!’ and was surprised by her own self. For the idea of her missus actually being seized by a rabble of black men did suddenly alarm July. All at once, there was Caroline Mortimer in her mind’s eye, her breath quick and gasping, her round cheeks red, puffy and wet with tears, her blue eyes swelling with pleading, her arms outstretched with podgy fingers splayed like a baby needing comfort, her fearful voice squeaking, ‘Marguerite, Marguerite, help me, please,’ while her blond curls quivered. Within that vision of her missus’s ravishment, July became soft with worry for her. For if anyone was going push her missus into a sugar teache until only her petticoat floated upon the brew, then it must be she and not some vengeful nigger. ‘But them will boil me missus in sugar,’ she cried.

‘Miss July, she must go to town,’ Nimrod said, ‘There be a ship in the bay. She must aboard that ship. She will be safe there.’

‘Marguerite! Let me out,’ the missus’s voice interrupted once more, shrill as the pipe of a bat.

‘Go tell her she must get to town, Miss July, to the ship,’ Nimrod repeated while looking to Godfrey to see if he agreed with this command. But Godfrey, yawning once more, just lifted himself from his seat to let out a deep and resonant fart.

CHAPTER 11

‘FORGOT!’ CAROLINE MORTIMER CRIED. ‘I am forgot!’ She paced the room before July, so furious that the breeze she created blew out two of the candles.

‘All have left me to my fate, Marguerite. They care nothing of what becomes of me.’ July made rush to re-light the candles as her missus yelled, ‘How am I to see what must be packed, Marguerite, if you cannot keep the room lit? Will there be dining aboard the ship?’ She looked into July’s face with earnest, wide-eyed inquiry. July stood motionless—too feared to shrug in case her missus once more broke down into time-wasting sobs. ‘Oh, why am I asking you?’ her missus said, before answering her own question with an impassioned cry of, ‘Because I am forgot that is why, completely forgot and am in need of advice.’

Her hands shook as she bit on her fingernail. ‘Will I need formal attire, Marguerite? Or will my smart day-wear, with a little ornament, do? Well, Marguerite, you are all that I have, what do you think?’ Having little knowledge of those social manners, July was left with no option but to shrug. Her missus then began ranting. She was in front of July scolding, behind her yelling, rushing past her sobbing, and then suddenly, she was before her, pointing a pistol at July’s head.

‘What good is this to me?’ she said. July swiftly ducked as the missus, swinging the weapon about her, shouted, ‘My brother has abandoned me! I am forgot. And I do not even know how to fire this piece,’ before dropping the gun to the floor.

July, taking a step closer to her, had intended to once more reassure her missus that she would be safe and among other white people upon the ship in the bay. But before her breath was gathered for this assertion, her missus shouted, ‘And how do I know you are not lying to me and wish me from this house so you may steal everything we have. Who told you of this ship? Who came?’

As July uttered the words, ‘Mr Nimrod,’ her missus stopped dead as if suddenly stiffened by salt.

‘Nimrod is here?’ she said with a gentle frown.

Thinking the missus now calmed at the thought of Nimrod being near, July nodded. But her missus, almost quietly, began, ‘He made start on my garden, Marguerite. Took all the money for the work, of course, yet I have not seen him now for weeks. All manner of weeds are growing upon that ground now. My brother says Nimrod must have more pressing work than my garden of vines. But I had paid Nimrod to complete it and now my brother won’t hear a word from me upon the subject. Is Nimrod come to finish my garden?’