Chapter 12
ZINZI
Victoria Park, Labor Movement Rally, Kingston
The sun blinds me. I lift my hand to shield my eyes but can’t see what’s happening.
I can only hear the shouting, the crack of police batons striking flesh and breaking bones, and the cries of agony and pain.
I must get to my feet. Crouching on the ground like a frightened child isn’t the woman I believe myself to be, and this isn’t my first rally to go poorly. Though this one went haywire fast.
I rise unsteadily. Victoria Park is in chaos. People are crawling, running, and stumbling into one another. The metallic scent of blood fills the air, and my right leg throbs with pain. But I can’t bring myself to look at it. I’m too scared.
“Help me,” a voice calls out. I glance at a girl lying on the ground with blood on her face, clutching her stomach. I drop to my knees beside her. “Can you sit up? You can’t stay here. You’ll get stepped on if you don’t get up.”
The girl’s gaze darts wildly between horror and fear. She’s panicking and holding her breath. “You’re going to pass out.” I felt this way once before, when Byron and I escaped the meeting a few days ago.
Byron.
I have no idea where he is, but I can’t worry about him right now.
I help the girl to her feet. “Follow me.” She doesn’t respond. She can’t seem to focus. “Look at me!” Finally, I have her attention. “We can’t stay here,” I say. “We’ll be trampled.”
I wrap my fingers around her wrist, a slender, bony joint. Limping on my injured leg, I lead her to the back of the riser, a barrier that separates us from the crowd.
“I need you to stay here until things calm down,” I tell the girl. “I have to go find someone—”
She grabs my hand. “No, no, stay, stay.”
“I promise I won’t leave you.” I scan the park, searching for a way to escape.
People are scattering in every direction. Constables are chasing them, and union busters are attacking workers at random. Venturing into the heart of the mayhem isn’t safe, but I can’t abandon the girl. We’ll just have to wait until things settle down.
On my tiptoes, I peek above the risers and search for Allan—and Byron.
But it’s futile—too many people are darting in and out of the park.
A sharp pain shoots through my leg, as if someone is hammering nails into my calf.
There’s a gash in the fleshy part of my lower leg muscle, but I convince myself it looks worse than it feels, so I push it out of my mind.
After a while, I know we can’t remain hidden much longer. “The best way for us to get out is through the market,” I tell the girl. “We’ll blend into the crowd heading that way.”
We avoid Church Street and the police station across from Victoria Park and instead head to West Queen Street. There’s a small shop whose owner is sympathetic to the labor movement. She’s helped injured organizers before.
“You’ll be fine,” I assure the girl. “I know a place where we can get patched up.”
Sometime later, I leave the girl with the store owner at Sarah’s Spice Shop, where Sarah also bandages my wound, but I need to keep moving.
I veer away from Victoria Park toward the harbour.
If they aren’t in jail, that’s where I’ll find Allan, Byron, and the others, safe and sound on King Street. Or so I pray.
Allan Coombs’s Office, King Street, Kingston
In the stillness of darkness, I return to where my day began.
It must be after midnight as I hobble onto King Street, my leg wrapped in a poultice of bitter melon and castor oil that gives off a foul smell, reminiscent of rotten fruit.
Thankfully, the horrible odor distracts me from the pain in my leg.
As I turn the corner, I sigh with relief when I see him. Byron sits on the curb outside Allan’s office, puffing on a cigarette. I hobble closer. His drenched shirt and the bruises on his face and forearms are ugly souvenirs from his first rally. But at least he’s alive.
“Is Allan here?” I try not to stare too long at the black-and-blue blotches on Byron’s face and throat.
“He and the others left about an hour ago. I told him I’d wait for you.
” His voice is emotionless as he glares into the darkness, his pinpoint gaze challenging anyone lurking—a leftover rioter, a for-hire constable, anyone—to show themselves.
His anger rolls off him like sweat. If I hadn’t had my fill of violence at Victoria Park, I could find plenty in Byron’s eyes.
“We were worried about you until one of the volunteers spotted you in Kingston Market helping injured workers.” He glances at my leg. “Which, I see, included you.”
The office is dark, with no kerosene lamps flickering in the windows. I need to find out how the other organizers are doing. “How many of us have checked in?”
Byron takes a long drag from his cigarette. “Only a few volunteers were jailed. The police mostly arrested the workers, but many in the crowd were specifically there to cause trouble.”
“I wish I could say I’m surprised, but it escalated quickly. I swear it was the most life-threatening situation I’ve ever faced.” I sit down next to him on the curb.
“It was a good time,” he replies sarcastically, as he continues to search for something in the dark.
“Yeah, fun,” I mimic his tone. “One of the least problematic rallies in labor movement history.”
“I guess you’re right. No one was killed.” With his knees drawn up and his elbows resting, Byron blows cigarette rings into the night. His short-sleeved shirt shows forearms marked with scratches and a gash, possibly from a knife.
Does he need to go to the hospital? “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he replies.
I tilt my head to the side. “I’m not sure you are.
” I hesitate, trying to choose my words carefully.
“Today wasn’t unusual. It escalated quickly, but there has been trouble at all our rallies lately.
I should have been clearer this morning.
I’m sorry if it caught you off guard.” I pause, hoping for a reaction, but the night holds him tightly in its grip.
“Thank you for waiting for me, but maybe we should go to the hospital. My leg, your arm, your face, and wherever else you’ve been hurt could all use some professional care. ”
“Come on, Zinzi,” he says. “I’m fine, just a bit angry. I returned to Jamaica to work with the labor movement to change how sugar plantations operate, starting with my family’s plantation. I thought I could be a catalyst to help other owners embrace the union.”
“You trying to be a hero?” I notice another bruise on his jaw, about the size of a small Otaheite apple. “You found out today that it’s not so easy.”
“You’re right. It’s not. But I learned more than just that today.” He drops the cigarette butt and reaches into his pocket to pull out a pack of Lucky Strike. “Would you like a smoke?” he asks.
“What else happened at the rally?”
“It seems that the constables were informed that the son of Bernard Christian Tynesdale would be participating in the rally, and my father’s instructions were to teach me a lesson.
So he hired troublemakers and more constables than usual to disrupt the rally.
Consequently, not only did I get my ass kicked but I also sparked a riot. ”
“What happened today was not your fault,” I say. “Rallies sometimes escalate into a brawl. Besides, you only agreed to get involved last night, and you were here this morning at five o’clock. How could your father have organized such a plan overnight?”
Byron grunts. “He hired a private detective.”
I lean back. “He did?”
“This fellow has been watching me since I returned to Kingston. I believe my father already knew who you were when I introduced you at the Myrtle Bank Hotel.”
“How did you learn about this private detective?”
“One of the constables, a guy I’ve known since childhood—the same one who tipped me off about the raid the other day, told me after he stopped a group of his fellow officers from beating me to death.”
“Your father is ill if he’d put his plantation above your life.”
He looks at me with a sadness that I can feel in my chest. “It turns out he’ll do whatever he believes is necessary to protect his business interests.”
“I’m sorry, Byron, but why did you think any of this would be easy?”
“I’m a fool. I thought my father, facing death, would hand the reins over to me without too much fuss or, at the very least, listen to my ideas.
Of course I expected a debate, but I always thought he’d come around.
” Byron chuckles. “I left Jamaica a decade ago, and the man I knew then wouldn’t win a prize for father or husband of the year, but I still didn’t believe he was evil.
Or maybe I just can’t see evil.” His voice cracks.
“My father has been corrupted by money, success, and everything that comes with it.”
“I’m sorry he disappointed you.”
“Sad and silly, huh?” He looks shaken. “A grown man who stubbornly believes he can convince his father that together they can make a difference for Jamaican workers and the sugar industry.”
“He may not be able to, but you can.”
“That’s not the difference I meant.”
“Working with Allan will help create change.”
“Will it?”
“The movement is much more than just a rally or a difficult day,” I explain. “We are committed to the labor union as long as it takes to achieve success. One day, regardless of the industry, workers across Jamaica will be treated fairly, earn just wages, and have safe working conditions.”
“I’m too angry to feel hopeful,” Byron says with a bitter chuckle. “I want to confront my father and make him face the pain and suffering he’s inflicting on the men, women, and children who work for him.” He inhales more cigarette smoke. “I want to hurt him the way he’s hurt others.”
“Let’s channel that anger to support the movement.”
“You’re a crusader, Zinzi, and a reasonable woman, but I may not share your belief in the humanity of mankind, and its ability to change minds.”
I tense up. “I wouldn’t put it that way.”
“You already did.” He chuckles. “But I’m a fool, and you shouldn’t believe anything I say.”
“Hey, come on. Stop being so hard on yourself. You’ve taken enough hits for one day. Let’s get out of here.”
“And go where? The hospital? No, thanks.”
“All right, no hospital. But we’re in Kingston, Jamaica. This city never sleeps.”
“That’s New York City or London. Jamaica is different.” He stands up, offers his hand, and helps me to my feet. “I want my father to get his head out of the clouds and do what’s right. That means hitting him where it hurts—his bank account.”
“Byron, you’re too upset to make decisions now.”
“I feel like I’ve been under his control my whole life. I don’t want to feel this way anymore.”
“What way?”
“Powerless,” he growls. “I thought I knew what my father was capable of, but now I have no doubt. At the rally, I did something I’ve been too much of a coward to do for a long time: I defied him.
I publicly declared my support for the labor union movement.
And he had his goons beat me—gave me a spanking for daring to disagree with him.
I’m a grown man: bruised and swollen. But I refuse to back down. ”
“So, you’ll join the movement and become one of our most passionate supporters. That’s what truly matters. Not revenge.”
“That’s rich, coming from the woman who dreams of burning the Tynesdale Estate to the ground.”
I shrug, as he tells no lie. “Okay, you’ve caught me. But do you know what form this revenge might take?”
“Yes, I do,” he replies. “I’m going to steal the family rum recipe and publish it in the Jamaica Gleaner.”
I suddenly become aware of the heat and how few stars are left in the sky. “You don’t want to do that. You’re not that reckless.”
“You don’t know me. We met two days ago.”
I take a deep breath. “If you’re sincere and have made this choice,” I say, “what do you expect from me?”
“What do I expect?” Suddenly, Byron is close enough to rest his hand lightly on my shoulder. “That you will help me steal it.”