GOING HOME
Thomas Aitchison lay on the floor in the dark, holding his mother as tightly and as gently as he could so as not to aggravate the bloody weals on her back. Her sobs had become less frequent and shallower and he now felt sure that she was, at last, asleep.
“Tunde?” she whispered into his chest, using his birth name.
“Yes, ma, I’m here,“ he whispered in return.
“Tunde, I’m so tired. I want to go home.”
“Don’t be silly, ma, how are you going to get back to Africa?”
“No, Tunde, don’t you be silly,” her voice had a reproachful edge that made him instantly regret his flippancy, “you know exactly what I mean.”
He could say nothing, filled as he was with grief and anger.
“This is all wrong,” he thought, “cradling my ma like she was my child. It just don’t feel right.”
It was the third time that week that his mother had returned with her back all red and raw from the lash. He felt the rage build up in him. She was an old woman and couldn’t work as fast as she could and her hands had started to get shaky, so she sometimes dropped things. It wasn’t her fault, couldn’t they see that? And yet they still punished her. Tears formed in his eyes and he gently stroked her grey head.
“Tunde?”
“Yes, ma, I know.”
And then he lowered his head onto hers, kissing her, while her hand sought his face and tenderly stroked him.
Morning.
The hut door was flung open and the slaves were pulled and kicked to their feet and shoved outside. All, except for one old grey-haired woman who didn’t move at all.
********************
Sir Josiah Aitchison’s plantation lay some ten miles from the new and beautiful town of Falmouth on the north coast of Jamaica. It was prime sugar country. His labour force numbered around a hundred and fifty who worked his fields and refinery, as well as in his grand house. His sole crop was sugar, though he also produced rum. Some was for his own and local consumption but he ran a lucrative trade with the Royal Navy. As a slavemaster he was reckoned to be harsh, but by no means the worst.
Tunde, like most slaves, dreamed of running away. His mother had urged him many a time to do so, but he couldn’t do it knowing that retribution would be taken out on her.
“Tunde, my son,” she would say, “I would welcome the whipping. One more day of beating would mean one more day that you were free.”
But, he still couldn’t do it.
********************
Tunde reckoned that his best chance of escape would be during the cane harvest, starting soon after Christmas. There would be large groups of people doing all sorts of tasks and he felt it wouldn’t be difficult to slip away unnoticed.
He even knew the right spot. There was a small natural depression in one of the fields and if he got in there he’d be out of the overseers’ view, who may not even think this a possible escape route as the hollow led to one of the plantation’s middens. The afternoon would be the best time as the overseers would be getting tired and their lunch-time tot would make them less vigilant. The only drawbacks to the plan, that he could see, were being seen and reported by a fellow slave and leaving so late in the day meant he’d only have, at most, some three hours before it was discovered he was gone.
Crawling through the fetid midden, Tunde reached a stream which he knew he had to follow southwards towards the forests and mountains. He had to move fast, so he ran and ran, daring not to pause for breath and ignoring the branches and thorns lacerating his skin. He’d kept hold of his machete, which was useful at times.
He kept to the stream’s course as his guide and in the hope that the water would mask his scent from the dogs that would be set after him. When the stream finally gave out he struck out in, as far as possible, a southward line.
As dusk fell, Tunde didn’t let up. At one stage he was positive he heard dogs, but they could have been neighbourhood hounds and not the ones after him.
Complete darkness forced him to stop. There were no tracks to follow and the terrain was getting difficult. Steep rises were followed by equally steep drops.
But he was satisfied. He’d achieved what he’d hoped to do on this first day, which was to reach this near impenetrable region. It was here that he hoped to come across the people who would be his salvation; the Maroons.
There couldn’t be a slave alive in Jamaica who’d not heard of, and revered, the Maroons. They’d been around for two centuries and, in the main, composed of runaways; first from the Spanish and later from the English. They had become such a thorn in the side of the plantation owners by their raids and taking off or encouraging runaways, that there came a settlement. In return for land and non-molestation, the Maroons agreed to stop their attacks.
On his flight, Tunde had seen one or two black men, but he viewed with great suspicion a black on their own, without supervision and so kept well under cover.
He had no such chance of evading detection later that morning. Struggling through the dense vegetation, Tunde burst into a small clearing and, not more than ten feet away, stood a black man armed with a spear, machete and a selection of knives and by his nonchalant look he’d been waiting for Tunde to emerge.
********************
“And where d’you think you’re going?” the man asked, though not in an entirely unfriendly way.
“I…I…I…,” stuttered Tunde, not knowing if it was the right thing to admit he was looking for the Maroons, “I don’t know.”
The man gave a loud whistle.
“You don’t know where you’re going? That can be a very dangerous thing up here, if you don’t know where you’re going.”
At that point another man came out of the bush, kitted out in a similar manner to the first. Seconds later, two more appeared.
Tunde dropped his machete. He would have had a go at one, but not four.
“Where’you from?” asked the first man.
Tunde was afraid to say anything. He didn’t want to let on that he was a runaway, even though it was obvious from this ragged and battered appearance that he couldn’t be anything else.
“We’re not getting very far are we?” the man said, smiling at his companions who’d now encircled Tunde. “How about an easy question? What’s your name?”
Tunde saw no danger in that. “Thomas,” he said.
“I mean, do you have a real name?”
“Yes, I’m Tunde.”
The man beamed and said,
“Well that’s one better than me, I’m just plain George. Over there is Johnny, behind you is Oyo and this skinny lad is, for some reason, called Samson.”
Tunde looked around and they were all grinning at him. He couldn’t help himself from grinning too.
“Samson, Johnny,” called George, “you take Tunde back while Oyo and I carry on hunting.”
“Right you are,” Samson said, bending down to pick up Tunde’s machete and add it to the armoury in his belt. Then, placing a hand on Tunde’s back, “Come on, let’s go.” And they set off in single file with Johnny in the lead.
“So you’re a runaway, are you?” asked Samson, “Where did you come from?”
Tunde was still wary,
“Why d’you want to know? Would you send me back if I was?”
Samson moved alongside and squeezed Tunde’s arm.
“Hmmm, I think we can make good use of a big strong lad like you. But that’s Baba’s decision.”
“Baba?”
“He’s our leader. He has the final say in who joins us.” explained Samson.
“What if he doesn’t want me?” Tunde asked, all his anxieties and fears coming back.
“I can’t see that happening,” said Samson. “We haven’t been going long as a village and we need strong young men like you. Even if we couldn’t use you, we’d find you a group who did. So don’t you worry.”
Samson slapped Tunde on the back.
“You’re Maroons, aren’t you?” Tunde ventured.
Samson roared with laughter,
“Has it really taken you all this time to work that out?”
Baba turned out to an elderly man with striking white hair and beard. He made Tunde strip off and turn right round and be inspected.
“Now tell me about yourself,” said Baba.
Tunde told him about the Aitchison plantation.
“How come you have the name Tunde?” he asked.
“My mother told me that her grandfather and grandmother were brought from Africa. When she was very young, her grandfather would tell her stories about their life in Africa. His name was Tunde. I think it’s the only African name she knew.”
Baba stood up and took Tunde’s hands.
“We’re all African here. We’re all from the same part and it wouldn’t be a surprise if some of us were related. But we’ll never know. I’m Babanayo. Welcome to our village. Let me tell you about us.”
He told Tunde that the settlement was only some five years old. He and several others moved away from the main Maroon centre at Accompong. They existed by hunting, which was the men’s activity while the women grew some cereals, fruit and vegetables and raised chickens and goats. Then, deliberately looking at Tunde’s genitals, he smiled and said,
“I’m sure you will be useful to us in many ways.”
He walked to the door of his thatched hut and called to Johnny, who was sitting outside,
“Johnny, get Tunde cleaned up and some new clothes and get him settled in, will you?”
When he left Baba’s hut, Tunde could see the village properly for the first time. A shallow semi circle of crude huts of branches and leaves faced the central fire. To his left an area had been cleared and women were working on the crops growing there. On the other side was a fenced off area containing some young boars, while all around children crawled and played, chickens pecked hopefully and goats happily chewed on anything they came across.
“So you’re joining us, are you?” These were the first words that Tunde had heard Johnny utter since they’d met. Then Johnny went further, “Yes, I reckon you could be very valuable to our village. Very valuable.” But it was said with very little warmth.
********************
For the next eighteen months Tunde lived in the Maroon village.
He learned how to hunt the boar and trap other animals. He helped build more huts for the expanding population, which grew naturally (to which, as Baba had foretold, Tunde certainly had made his mark) and through a handful of runaways.
But come the middle of the year in the hurricane season, the island was hit by two violent storms and Tunde’s village was wiped out. The huts and other structures could be rebuilt but the chickens and goats had disappeared. Also lost were their food crops. They urgently needed to re-stock or they wouldn’t survive.
It was decided that Tunde, along with Johnny, towards whom Tunde had never really taken, and two others would go to Windsor, the nearest large settlement, and ask the Government agent, Mr McAteer, for help.
The four set off on foot until they reached a track and a barn where the Maroons kept their mule and cart. (The mule had been brought back to the village for safety during the storms but the cart needed a lot of patching up before it was roadworthy).
As they hitched the animal to the cart, Tunde asked,
“What if Mr. McAteer doesn’t give us anything?”
“Then we’ll have to sell some of our valuables, won’t we?” answered Johnny.
“But we don’t have anything of value to sell,” protested Tunde.
“Don’t we?” smirked Johnny. Then gesturing to the others, “Tie him up!”
Bound hand and foot and then trussed to a pole like a hog, Tunde was dumped into the cart. Johnny leapt up beside him while the other two sat up front.
“Oh don’t you believe it,” Johnny told Tunde, “The Maroons aren’t bloody Robin Hoods or angels of mercy. We have to survive and we have to do whatever needs must. I’m sure old Aitchison will be pleased to get you back. And don’t you go blaming me, this was all Baba’s idea. Look at it this way. You’re sacrificing yourself for the good of the rest of us. And we thank you mightily for that.” And he laughed.
At the Agent’s office in Windsor, they released Tunde from the pole and dragged him inside.
“Good afternoon, Mr. McAteer, sir,” Johnny fawned. “We come to beseech your help, sir. We need supplies to restock our village after the storms.”
“I’m sure you do, Johnny. As do hundreds of others in the area.” He glanced towards Tunde sprawled on the dusty floor. “And what have you brought me here?”
“Well, sir, we’ve brought you a runaway. He’s Thomas from the Aitchison plantation. Seems he ran away at the beginning of last year and I reckon Mr. Aitchison would reward us well for such a prize specimen.”
“I’m sure he would indeed,” said Mr. McAteer. “Now put him in the cell and untie him.”
They did so and McAteer closed the cell door, but didn’t lock it, saying to Tunde,
“Now you stay there and keep quiet and listen to what I say.”
Turning to Johnny and the others he said,
“If I recollect rightly, there’s a reward of several pounds for Thomas and going by the terms of our usual deals you’ll have more than enough for your needs.”
The three black men smiled at each other.
“But,” it was now McAteer’s turn to smile as he continued, “you’re too late.”
“Too late!” shouted a very much surprised Johnny. “What d’you mean, too late?”
“I mean that there’s no reward for Thomas,” McAteer was rather enjoying this. He was no friend of the Maroons. In his official capacity he had to tolerate them, but he felt there was something mercenary or ungentlemanly, if one could even see them as gentlemen, about the way they’d quite blatantly turn in one of their own for the money. He looked at the three open-mouthed men in front of him,
“You lot and old man Baba have been holed up in the forest for too long and have got out of touch. You’ve not heard, have you, that slavery’s been abolished in all His Majesty’s colonies. From the first of this month, Thomas, here,” McAteer gestured behind him, “is no longer a slave. Manumitted, I think the word is. He’s a free man. As indeed, you lot are.”
He paused to let his words sink in. He turned to Tunde and saw the same look of astonishment.
“Stop gaping at me like a bunch of guppies and get out of my office!” he ordered.
The three stunned ex-slaves needed some encouragement from McAteer to vacate his premises. He returned to the cell and opened the door.
“Come out Thomas, you’re free to go.”
“Tunde.”
“Eh?”
“Tunde. It’s my name, not Thomas.”
“Well I suppose you can call yourself whatever you like, now, can’t you?”
“But what do I do now?” wailed Tunde.
“Well, you can do anything you like. Within reason, of course. I don’t want you ending your first free day locked up in my cell,” laughed Mr. McAteer. “But seriously, you could go back to Aitchison’s. He may take you back, but as an apprentice, which isn’t that much better than being a slave, so I hear. I don’t suppose you’d want to go back with Johnny…No, I didn’t think you would. You could go down to Falmouth, there may be work in the harbour, there. In fact, come to think of it, there’ve been some sailings to Africa, Sierra Leone or Liberia. Hundreds of your lot have gone there. Anyway, I must get on, this manumitting has given me a load of paperwork to do.”
Mr. McAteer ushered Tunde to the door.
“Good luck and God be with you, Thomas.”
“Tunde.”
“What? Oh yes, Tunde,” and Mr. McAteer chuckled again, dug into his pocket and put two pennies in Tunde’s hand. “Now, off you go, free man.”
********************
This was all a tremendous shock to Tunde. He had been born a slave to a slave and knew nothing else. Cruel as life in slavery was, you had no choice. Even in the Maroon village your life was dictated by the seasons and the needs of the village. He had no idea whatsoever how to live as a free man.
He wandered around the town for a while and spent some of his money on something to eat. As darkness fell he had to find a place to sleep.
That night he dreamt of his mother again.
“Come home, now, Tunde,” she said. “Come home.”
Before the sun had risen the next morning, Tunde, a smiling and laughing Tunde, was on the road to Falmouth.
“Yes ma, I’m coming home!” he shouted. “I’m really coming home!”
lostinwords 