Now, Nimrod was not tall—no taller than July—for his legs were bowed as if waiting for the horse he had just dismounted to return and slip back under him. Yet still he walked proud, for Nimrod was a free man. Although once the groom at Amity, he had purchased his freedom many seasons ago, laying down two hundred pounds in coins and notes while the massa’s mouth gaped.
July thought Nimrod’s skin black as coke and his nose too flat and broad. But he was not a slave. He now commanded white people to look upon him within the eye. Although one of his eyes was apt to wander, which made knowing which eye to fix upon as he spoke a little confusing. But still, as a freeman he did hold that respect.
The hair upon his head was lush at the front but at the back there was a sovereign-sized hole in the covering that did glisten in sunlight. And the scar upon his lip that Tam Dewar had left him with after a punishment, looked like a disfigurement to July when he was still white man’s chattel. But now Nimrod was a man with his own name—not given, but chosen—that jagged mark made him look brave. Nimrod Freeman or Mr Freeman was the name that all white people had to address him by, or he would give them nothing of what they required. For, like the wind, the sun, or the flowing river, like a soaring man-of-war or a beetle under a stone, like a spider at a web or a crab scuttling sideways across a shore, Nimrod was free. And, ‘Miss July,’ cough, cough, ‘greetings,’ Nimrod did indeed say as July approached.
‘ ’Devening, Mr Freeman.’
‘Miss July, you know to call me Mr Nimrod,’ he said, standing from his seat, yet stooping his head toward July, as if there were some need for him to bend himself shorter to deliver those words. He did not wink on her, for all at Amity were there to see, but he did raise his eyebrows to July two times to imply some fellowship between them as he offered her to sit. He then cleared his throat with a further cough, cough as he sat to continue the tale he had been telling to all who were gathered; Godfrey and Hannah, sucking upon their pipes; Molly loudly devouring a red love apple; the washerwomen, Florence and Lucy, straining to hear from a little way off; Byron, of course, sitting almost still while inspecting a scab upon his knee; even Patience had come.
‘So, me continue,’ Nimrod said and July felt him looking straight upon her with a keen glare . . . but then so did Molly. ‘Three white men come looking for the negro them call the Colonel—him the leader of this band that torched the trash house up at Providence plantation—the flames licking till all that remained was the jagged, scorched stones that did appear like a black-tooth grin within this breach. In upon the carpenter’s shop they come—looking here, looking there. But them no see five negroes hiding from them.’
‘Five, you say?’ Godfrey interrupted.
‘Five,’ Nimrod replied.
‘And where they hiding?’
‘In a cupboard,’ Nimrod said.
‘Five men in a cupboard. That be a big cupboard,’ Godfrey said.
Hannah, sucking upon her teeth, snapped, ‘Hush up, Mr Godfrey,’ before nodding for Nimrod to carry on.
‘Suddenly them flew from their concealment to jump upon these white men. Them seized their cutlass. Bound their hands. Blindfolded them and marched them to the works. And there . . .’ Nimrod looked from one person to the next, as best he could, whilst saying, ‘them threw those white men into the boiling sugar like them was three pieces of temper lime.’
July gasped. As Nimrod leaned in closer to July, the little tuft of beard upon his chin waggled like a goat chewing upon grass as he whispered loud, ‘Only their hats floated upon the liquor.’
July wished to pull at the bouncing strands of hair upon his chin to beg him to tell her the beginning of this tale, for it was lost to her while everyone else sat silent within the thrill of this fright.
Except, that is, Godfrey, who after sniffing loudly said, ‘And where was the boiler man when them throw three men in his good sugar teache?’
Nimrod leaned back, folded his arms, and lifted his eyes to the sky to answer, with a heavy sigh, ‘Him was drunk.’
‘The head man was drunk, you say?’ Godfrey said. Everyone, even Patience, sucked their teeth upon Godfrey, for he was clouding up this tall-tall telling.
‘Mr Godfrey, the boiler man was drunk ’pon rum him had stolen from the stores,’ Nimrod answered. And all gasped except . . .
‘And you say all this be going on as we sit,’ Godfrey said.
‘Let God be my witness. Let the Lord strike me down now if what I say is not true.’ Nimrod lifted his arms to let God declare him a liar by frying him in a fire bolt before this gathering. When no lightning struck, he carried on with, ‘Hear me now, the island is ablaze. They be fighting everywhere and white men be running for their lives. Them say militia so feared for the situation that they will pay Maroons good money for a pair of rebel negro ears.’ Nimrod leaned forward upon his seat to grab Byron, ‘And them no worried if there be no head in between. Who’ll give me a penny for these?’ he said, tugging the boy’s lobes. And oh, how everyone screamed . . . except Godfrey.
As Nimrod sat back upon his seat, folded his arms and grinned, July noticed that he had lost more teeth since last she saw him, leaving his smile as mangled and forlorn as one of the missus’s broken-down hair combs. But at least those ugly chops were upon a freeman.
‘And so is we now all free?’ Molly asked.
‘Ah, well,’ Nimrod pondered.
‘Is we or is we not, Mr Nimrod?’ Godfrey questioned, with deep annoyance in his tone.
Before answering, Nimrod carefully raised one cheek of his backside from the chair and, with a grimace of intense concentration, let forth a loud fart. Then giggling, he waved his hand in this emission to waft its pungent smell from him. Distaste clouded everyone’s face. Except Nimrod, who found it very amusing. Once the stink had passed, he composed himself enough to say, ‘Well, as you know, Mr Godfrey, I am a free man.’
And no sooner had those words left his crooked mouth than Patience shouted, ‘Hold them!’
July jumped to her feet to throw herself betwixt Godfrey and Nimrod. This movement was well practised by all the house servants at Amity; it was just that, on this occasion, July was the nearest to perform it. She held her arms wide between them, looking from one man to the other. Molly, poised keenly, was ready to catch Nimrod should he lunge, and Patience, marking Godfrey, was willing to do the same.
For these two men could never be in each other’s company for long before some quarrel would erupt between them. Let the one over a hand of playing cards be my first example. Godfrey waved a fowling piece in Nimrod’s face and threatened to blast his head into meat for a hog if he did not admit to cheating. Then there was the weeks of sulking, protestations and dispute that went on when Nimrod, still the groom at Amity, was granted a boy from the massa to hold his mule—which made three within the stables—while Godfrey was left with just his one within the kitchen. And oh, reader, I have just remembered, but will you believe me? The flight of fancy which found these two men squabbling upon which one of them the coloured Miss Clara from Unity did find more agreeable. All but those two quarrelling buffoons knew that Clara would rather roll herself in horse dung, then walk naked down the main street than be friendly to either one of them. Yet in trying to settle this row, they delivered bloody noses and bruised eyes to each other’s faces.